


around the world

by RaeOfFrickingSunshine



Series: around the world [1]
Category: Outer Banks (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, send help, so slow, some of the happiness they deserve, the slowest of slow burns, this is going to be long i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:35:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 114,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24196816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaeOfFrickingSunshine/pseuds/RaeOfFrickingSunshine
Summary: You can take the boy out of the Outer Banks, but you can't take the Outer Banks out of the boy.when it's all calmed down, kiara travels the world. jj's not precisely an unwelcome addition.
Relationships: Background Pope/Kiara, JJ & Kiara (Outer Banks), JJ/Kiara (Outer Banks), Sarah Cameron/John B. Routledge
Series: around the world [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1819243
Comments: 912
Kudos: 1045





	1. outer banks

Kiara thinks she deserves a vacation, after everything.

Three weeks after John B and Sarah disappear; three weeks of crying and clutching Pope and JJ like a life raft, they get a call. The line is faint and the voice tinny, but it’s undoubtedly John B.

They celebrate by getting extremely high and then JJ threatens to jump off the roof.

“We should probably be concerned by that,” Pope comments, one arm wrapped around Kiara. They’ve not defined anything, but Pope gravitates towards her. Presses gentle, easy kisses to her lips. JJ politely gives them their space, and always announces his presence before entering a room by stamping loudly or coughing, or speaking before he’s through the doorway.

The Pogues have learnt a few things by now, so as soon as John B and Sarah locate the gold, they call the police. The stash they found isn't the promised four hundred million (theories abound as to whether Ward has other stashes) but it's definitely still a lot of gold. The pair return to the Outer Banks the same day Ward and Rafe Cameron get arrested.

The case is contested in court at great length. The Pogues continue to attend school and Sarah joins them at the Chateau more often than not. Life continues in some semblance of normal, considering Sarah’s brother and father are remanded in custody. She has some distant aunt move in to care for her and Wheezy, and her step mom moves out. For all intents and purposes, Heyward takes over the role of guardian for John B and JJ. It means little in practice, because they remain living at the Chateau. DCS quickly lose interest in the rising eighteen-year olds, especially when Shoupe puts in a good word about their placement.

There are a few charges brought against John B and the rest of them. The jury is reluctant to make any of them stick.

In the end, the money is considered the property of the Cameron’s. Or more specifically, Sarah Cameron’s, since she is now the eldest Cameron not in prison. (Thank God for the water tight pre-nuptial agreement Ward insisted on).

The Pogues (and Sarah) sit in a numb silence when the verdict is read out. Then JJ runs from the court room and they can hear him screaming in the hallway at the top of his voice. He rushes at them when they follow, arms thrown around Pope and Kiara, his face close to theirs as he hollers.

After some intense discussions, Sarah puts half of the fortune aside for various charities. The remainder is split equally and put into trust funds, to be accessed in increments, the first being when they turn twenty-five. Until then, there’s a healthy yearly allowance.

“Do you not trust is with millions or something?” John B complains, as they all sit on the porch of the Chateau.

“Would you trust him with millions?” Sarah nods towards JJ, who lazily raises a middle finger in her direction.

“To be fair, with thirty thousand he did buy a hot tub, a generator and a shit load of champagne,” Pope points out.

“Totally worth it,” JJ tips his head back on the couch. “It was a fucking good hot tub. Basically medicinal.”

“I don’t really like hot tubs,” Sarah muses. “It’s all great until you realise you’re just basically taking an outdoor bath with your friends or family, then it gets weird real quick. Pools are way better. At least you can exercise in them.”

“Spoken like a true Kook,” JJ mutters. “You’re lucky to have a bath at all around here, inside or out.”

Pope grins at that, and John B frowns at the pair. Sarah looks to Kiara for support, but she carefully schools her features into a neutral expression. Since her so called Kook year, she’s careful not to be drawn into the them vs. us politics that may threaten to open any chasm within their friendship.

“We’re all Kooks now,” John B points out. “Full Kooks.”

“When we’re twenty-five,” Pope reminds them.

“Ignore them,” John B pulls his girlfriend into the hammock, wraps his arms around her. “They’re just being ungrateful assholes. Legally they deserve nothing, so you’ve already been more than generous.”

JJ scoffs. “Generous? We found it! We were the ones who got shot at and beaten up, got framed for murder and kidnap and whatever the fuck else. Big John _died_. Without us, there would be no gold.”

Kiara kicks him in the shin and JJ yelps, clutching at his calf theatrically. Kiara nods towards Sarah, who’s fallen quiet.

“She’s lost her brother and her dad, dumbass,” Kiara hisses. “Have some compassion.”

John B’s rubbing his hand up and down Sarah’s arm, his voice low as he mumbles to her. Sarah sniffs a couple of times in quick succession, and even JJ has the decency to look vaguely abashed.

Pope pipes up, because although he’s often accused of being the most awkward of the group, he’s also the best at smoothing over tricky situations. “Well, I’m still going to college. If I don’t get accepted on merit, I’ll just offer to pay them so much that they’ll have to accept me.”

“Me too,” Sarah’s regained her composure, wipes at her eyes. “I’m going to study environmental science somewhere by the coast. California, maybe.”

“I’m going to travel the world,” Kiara had decided that before the verdict had even been determined. The money they were now entitled to would make it a hell of a lot easier. She won’t deny that.

“I’ll go wherever Sarah goes,” John B’s voice is low. Pope and JJ both exchange disgusted looks, and JJ rams two fingers into his mouth.

There’s a silence, and all eyes turn to JJ. He’s pulled his faithful lighter from his pocket, scratching a nail across the rough scratching of his initials in the metal.

“Probably buy a house and go full Kook, I guess,” he says eventually, and he stretches out his legs and kicks at Pope’s sneaker clad feet. “Maybe get a dog.”

“Poor dog,” John B comments, and he’s pulling himself upright. “I’m hungry. Take-out, anyone?”

They order Thai, and everyone troops inside when the bike pulls up with the order. JJ sits on the couch for a moment longer, and Kiara waits for everyone to go inside. He’s been uncharacteristically quiet since the whole future conversation.

“You can always come with me,” she tells him, as she stands up. Her shoulder pops, so she rolls it and doesn’t look at him in case he mistakes the invitation for pity. “Come see the world.”

His smile is mostly teeth. “You wouldn’t want me cramping your style, Kie. Take Pope. I’m sure he’d do anything you asked.”

He wouldn’t – because Kiara has already asked him. Pope had stumbled over the words before finally settling on _I think we want different things_ in a sad tone. It has been somewhat amusing to watch him navigate the end of whatever had been going on, but Kiara swiftly put him out of his misery by hugging him tightly. They hadn’t announced the semi break up to the group – but they’d not announced the semi relationship either.

She says, “well, the invitation’s there,” and JJ raises one dismissive hand over his shoulder as he disappears into the house.

*

Pope, Sarah and John B all leave for college on the same day. Sarah and John B pack up the ever-faithful van to the brim with all of their worldy belongings. They’ve all given up persuading John B that he could upgrade to literally anything better. As soon as he muttered that his dad had bought him the van, they all backed down and left him be.

JJ clings to John B longer than socially acceptable. Kiara can see John B’s lips forming reassuring words, his grasp firm. When he’s released, JJ’s blinking rapidly, but he positions himself behind Pope and Kie and watches as they pull away.

John B winds down his window and leans out. “Don’t die!” he yells, voice warped as he picks up speed. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

Pope has a brand-new hybrid but mostly electric Tesla that’s been keyed twice and had the wing mirror removed by force once. He drives it with a practiced steadiness that really irritates JJ.

“It’s an embarrassment,” JJ complains, as he sprawls in the front seat and Pope navigates pulling out of John B’s driveway cautiously. “You’re rich now – you can afford to pay speeding tickets. I’m never going to walk on the sidewalk again. Ticket me up, bitch.”

“Jaywalking isn’t a crime in most other countries,” Pope barely accelerates as they turn onto the road.

“Hear that, Kie?” JJ twists his head to look at her, craning around the head rest. “You can go wild. Knock yourself out. Maybe literally, if the cars are going really fast.”

Pope glances very briefly in the rear-view mirror at her, their eyes meeting for a second before he looks back at the road.

They’re going for one last farewell lunch, at a venue of Pope’s choosing. He chooses The Wreck, which JJ protests about (“we could go _anywhere_ Pope – what about that place that serves whale spunk?” and Kiara has to explain, once again, “JJ – caviar is not spunk,” and then Pope’s low mutter of “does taste like it though.”), but he’s easily silenced when Pope says sadly that it might be the last chance he gets to go there for a while.

Pope pulls up in the parking lot (which is mostly a hardcore area where they keep the big, industrial dumpsters) and cuts the engine. They all sit in silence for a long moment, and then JJ throws open the passenger’s side door and jumps out. The door hits one of the dumpsters, and JJ shoots Pope an apologetic look. Pope looks at the car roof as though seeking divine strength.

Kiara’s dad wears the familiar resigned expression when he sees them coming through the door. Pope and JJ are arguing loudly about the merits of Pope’s new car (JJ: there are none, and it’s so quiet that it risks being a safety risk to pedestrians. Plus, no one will be impressed because you can’t hear it. Pope: it’s energy efficient, environmentally friendly, and cheaper to run).

“Plus, I’m looking for girls who are interested in more than my car.”

“Right, ‘cause Kie is definitely with you for your winning personality.” Before either of them can correct him, JJ throws himself down into a chair and puts his hands behind his head. “Hey, don’t look so sad, Mr Carrera. We’re paying this time.”

Her dad brings them the most expensive things on the menu, all on big driftwood sharing boards. They eat until they’re groaning, and then JJ requests that the leftovers be packed up.

“That’s me sorted for a week, at least,” he declares, clutching the paper bag. They’re standing in the parking lot in an awkward semi-circle. Pope keeps looking at Kiara and she feels untethered, cut off from shore. “I’m gonna take a leak,” JJ announces, and he jogs off towards The Wreck without a backward look.

Pope watches the blonde go. “Reckon he’ll be okay without us?”

“Definitely not. Dead within a month, I bet.” They both grin and it’s a little awkward but also not at the same time. Kiara is filled with a rush of love for Pope and for her Pogues, for their to-the-death friendship.

“Maybe you should take him with you,” Pope doesn’t look at her, which is exactly how all the Pogues address anything with any emotional weight. By indirect, passing comments. “Like a bodyguard.”

“More like a stray, mangy dog.” Kiara’s tongue touches her lower lip briefly, before she decides to go for full honesty. “I have asked him, actually. Don’t think he’s keen.”

Pope does look straight at her then. His gaze is unreadable. “Suppose we’ll have to keep track of him on Snap Maps or through nonsensical social media posts, then.”

“I’ll turn his Find My Friend on,” she promises. “Maybe we should think of investing in a tracking chip.”

Pope grins at that, gaze resting over her shoulder. JJ saunters back up to them, swinging the bag of leftovers.

“I hope you didn’t take that into the bathroom,” Kiara protests. “Have you ever heard of food hygiene?”

“Who do you take me for?” JJ complains, but he’s already thrusting the bag at Kiara so he can sweep Pope into one of his all-encompassing, consuming hugs. He even smacks a kiss to his cheek, cradles the back of his neck with one hand, forehead to forehead.

“I’m gonna miss you, man,” JJ tells him quietly. “Who am I going to bully now?”

Pope also looks marginally wrecked, eyes glassy. He looks more cut up about this farewell than the one with John B. JJ looks equally distraught about both. “Just don’t do anything stupid,” JJ looks incredulous at this suggestion, so Pope amends it, “okay, just don’t do anything really stupid. Like gun toting and stealing from a dealer stupid. And always use protection.”

JJ releases him, spins away and collects the bag from Kiara on his way past. “Aye aye, Captain. Understood. Don’t worry, if I ever need any physical affection, there’s always my dad.” Kiara and Pope both turn horrified gazes upon the blonde, brows furrowed. He laughs. “Joking, joking. Go on, get out of here.”

Pope hugs Kiara (JJ steps back and looks away courteously), then hugs JJ again, and then finally slides behind the wheel of his car.

“I’ll call everyday and you better pick up once a week,” he tells JJ, as he puts the car into reverse. JJ squints into the sun, watching him.

“Yessir,” JJ salutes at him lazily. “Kindly fuck off now, dear.”

Pope hesitating for about thirty seconds before pulling out ruins the goodbye somewhat, the boy looking each way at least ten times before moving off.

JJ and Kiara stand side by side in the empty parking lot. Something akin to grief swells in her chest. Something that is similar to the realisation she’d had when the police informed them about John B. It’s ridiculous, because they’re all still alive. But they’re gone for at least four years, and miles away from Outer Banks. She’s leaving in a week’s time. And JJ – well. Kiara knows Pope had been trying to downplay his fretting, but Kiara reckoned they were all worried about him being alone. Validly so.

“Wanna get high?” JJ breaks the silence.

“Fuck yeah.”


	2. london.

*

They go to the Chateau, because JJ has a key and John B would never leave him without a retreat.

Kiara, wizened through years of experience with whatever super strength shit JJ’s cousin manages to persuade to grow in chipped plant pots, texts her parents to say she won’t be home. JJ swaps the leftovers for a beer at the fridge, uncapping it on his teeth.

“You’ll ruin your teeth,” she protests, then refuses one because she’s learnt by now not to mix the two. JJ likes to live dangerously, or maybe he’s just immune from over indulgence.

JJ collapses into the faded red armchair, and Kiara onto the couch. The porch is vast without everyone else, without Pope slinging an arm around her shoulders, without John B and Sarah making disgusting but also vaguely sweet remarks to each other that they think everyone else can’t hear. The silence becomes too much, too heavy, so Kiara opens up her Spotify and automatically clicks play on the last song. _Someday_ by The Strokes blares merrily from her phone’s speaker.

JJ pauses from where he’s twisting the paper, one eyebrow raised. It’s John B’s favourite band. Kiara stares back, stubborn. Eventually he licks the paper, smooths it down, and fishes his lighter from his pocket.

He takes the first toke to ensure it’s taken, then passes it to Kiara. Nothing quite matches the first drag. From stone cold sober to not. JJ looks out over the water, tapping the beer bottle on the arm of the chair between sips. Eventually Kiara hands it back, can feel her limbs loosening, gaze softening.

“What’re you going to do?” JJ likes to hold the smoke in his lungs, revel in the taste. Kiara inhales and exhales like she’s a pregnant woman on gas, a slight anxiety about doing her lungs some irreparable damage fuelling her technique.

Smoke seeps out of JJ’s nose. More escapes from his mouth when he speaks. “Get a house,” he intones, and he alternates between his beer and the joint quickly. “A dog.”

“Yeah, but what are you going to _do?_ ”

Their fingers brush as they swap over. Kiara is emboldened by having it in her hand, the smoke curling lightly from the tip.

“Walk my dog. Maybe get a car and do it up.”

She’s tempted to sigh at the impossibility that is JJ Maybank. “You’ll get lonely. There’ll be no one here.”

“Oh, all the locals found long lost treasure as well, have they? You three aren’t the only survivors around here.”

He knows what she means, and she knows he does. He’s still looking out over the water.

“You just gonna stay here and wait for your dad to turn up at the door now you’re alone?” he looks at her then, eyes narrowing. “Come for a vacation, at the minimum. A few weeks. Just to see something other than this,” she gestures with the joint. At the water, at the Chateau.

“I haven’t got a passport.”

“You can fast track them – and I’ll cancel and rebook my flight.”

JJ doesn’t like to be cornered, whether physically or otherwise. Of course, Kiara now knows why. She’d previously thought it was pure stubbornness, not self-preservation. She hands him the stub and leaves the idea for him to mull over, instead busying herself with changing the song. Selects _London Calling_ by the Clash. JJ’s gaze is vaguely amused.

It takes another joint and two more beers before he finally agrees.

“Three weeks, maximum,” he insists, and they start looking up flights to London for two weeks time, just as she’d been planning.

*

The next morning they drive to JJ’s house, Kiara clinging tightly to the seat on the back of the bike. JJ had once said he was more careful when he had a passenger on the back. If that was true, Kiara would hate to see him without one.

The silence as they sit outside the condo is familiar. Luke’s truck isn’t in the vicinity but apparently that doesn’t mean much.

Kiara thinks JJ has the gun tucked into his waistband. It unnerves her.

“C’mon,” she encourages, clambering off. “Just need your social security number and birth certificate. Any idea where they’ll be?”

JJ’s staring with dull eyes, fingers twisting at one of the many rings he wears. There’s a delay before he focusses on her. “There’s a box of important stuff – I think – if he’s not got rid of it all.”

The door creaks open ominously. Inside empty bottles cover almost every available surface. Flies buzz in the kitchen, landing on an array of take out packaging and dirty plates. There’s a heavy smell in the air, underscored by cheap deodorant.

Kiara has to prod JJ in the shoulder blade to get him to move. He inhales a whole lungful of air and then heads to a cabinet near the shapeless couch, pulling a battered cardboard filing box from the shelf. Kiara hovers over his shoulder as he lifts the lid off.

The top papers are those for his foster placement. JJ’s breath catches. He hesitates over them, then brings the ream of paperwork out.

“Divide and conquer,” Kiara decides, neatly dissecting the pile in half. The contents are vaguely in chronological order, and JJ finds his birth certificate and the document with his social security number on it. There’s something else which he folds and pockets quickly, before Kiara can see it. He replaces the documents into the box, and the box onto the shelf.

A car door slams out the front, and JJ flinches. It puts Kiara on edge and the pair stare hard, barely breathing. No one approaches the door.

“Let’s go,” Kiara starts to head for the exit. JJ has been conspicuously silent, treading with light steps that make Kiara’s heart hurt – at the fact it’s second nature to make himself as small and inobtrusive as possible in his own family home.

He doesn’t head for the door. He heads for something which Kiara thinks must be his room. Casting one last longing look at the escape route, Kiara follows.

There are posters on the walls, and scraps of paper with drawings and doodles Kiara recognises as Pope and John B’s. One picture of John B, Pope and JJ is tacked on the wall. Kiara recognises it from when she’d had a burst of sentimentality and had gotten some photos from her phone developed. There’s a jagged line down the middle, like it’s been ripped in half and put back together.

“JJ,” she says, because he’s still standing and staring and something needs to change. It triggers something, and he starts moving. Pulling drawers open and retrieving clothes from the depths, or from the floor. He shoves them into a backpack Kiara recognises as his school one (before he abandoned that pretence and just turned up with a pen in his pocket, if the teacher was lucky).

He shoulders the bag, snatches a cap from the floor and rams it onto his head. It looks suspiciously like one of John B’s, one that he’d recently been searching for.

It’s still silent as he closes the door with a practiced quietness, as he makes sure it’s locked. As he stares at the key in his palm, his face blank but something at war in his head. Eventually he pockets the key and Kiara has to half jog to keep up as he marches to the bike.

*

“We’re not taking the gun.”

It’s not that she doesn’t trust JJ to pack. Or maybe it’s because she absolutely doesn’t trust JJ to pack. But she’d made up some guise about wanting their bags to be equal in weight so no one complains more than the other. Had asked to see what he’s planning on bringing.

The clothes are a jumble of Pope’s and John B’s, and perhaps a few items of JJ’s. There’s a strong preference towards shorts and battered t-shirts.

The gun sits innocently on the bedspread of John B’s bed.

“What do you suggest we do with it?” JJ’s tone has an edge of sarcasm. “Leave it here for the nice kids of the Cut to find? Maybe bury it, leave a treasure map? Turn it in at the station? _Terribly sorry, but we seem to have acquired this from a crime scene. No honestly sir, it just fell into my pocket._ ”

“There’s no right to arms in Europe – we can’t take it.”

“Maybe drop it in the sea, then.”

“No, it could fuck with the ecosystem.” JJ sends her a flat look. “Or a shark could swallow it.”

“That would be fucking awesome. An armed shark. Really would have spiced up Sharknado.”

In the end, Kiara makes JJ remove all of the bullets and he insists he’ll get rid of it. Or decommission it, or something. It involves the blow torch and one of John B’s bandanas pulled over his mouth and nose like a mask, and she doesn’t want to ask too many questions.

“Told you I went to welding class,” his tone is triumphant, as they look down at the melted and twisted hunk of metal. It’s still gun shaped, but definitely no longer a viable weapon. “Not my best work. I think I’ll call it _tortured youth._ ”

JJ waits for it to cool, wraps it in plastic grocery bags and tape, then drops it into a public dumpster over on Figure 8.

Kiara thinks he puts up a surprisingly little amount of resistance. It’s all explained when he says, “I’ll get my licence when I get back,” because that’s something they can do now – pay for official things and stay on the right side of the law.

Kiara doesn’t comment at the admission. Mostly because JJ and guns should probably never mix, but if they’re going to then they can at least be legal.

Her parents share a long, loaded look when two matching backpacks turn up at the house. She’d broken the news that JJ was joining her two days ago, when they queried why the pair were going to the mainland Post Office with JJ’s countersigned passport application. They weren’t exactly pleased with the revelation, but Kiara also knew her dad had been concerned about her heading off into the world as a single eighteen-year-old woman. She tries not to be offended at their concern (she can definitely look after herself), and bites back a familiar rant.

It’s Kiara who packs useful things like nail clippers and a mini first aid kit. JJ packs an all in one body and hair wash and Jolly Ranchers. Kiara finds him persuading a share bag of Hershey’s kisses into one of the external pockets of his bag.

“Apparently European chocolate is weird,” he explains, as the packet splits and the chocolates roll onto the floor. They’re leaving for the airport in two hours and as she predicted, JJ has procrastinated precisely eighty percent of his packing. In fact, he hadn’t even been here when she’d turned up half an hour ago to find the Chateau’s door locked. He’d strolled down the road ten minutes later, board under arm, barefoot, hair still damp from the sea.

“Don’t,” he says, when he sees her murderous expression. “We’ve got tons of time.”

She helps him fold everything into smaller packing cubes (he complains about their use, but she ignores him. Travel blogs say they are a must-have), and bullies him into taking a pair of pants that aren’t either shorts or sweats. He eventually roots out a pair of John B’s discarded jeans, muttering under his breath as he does so.

“You want to wear something comfortable for the plane, and warm. It can get cold.”

He opts for a pair of track pants which have _Routledge_ down one leg in peeling white letters, and a thick navy sweatshirt. It makes his eyes look darker blue but she doesn’t analyse that.

She runs through a quick checklist before they leave. “Passport, bank card, pounds, phone and charger,” he nods at each one. Places his hands on her shoulders.

“We’re millionaires now, Kie. We can buy whatever the fuck we want.”

Kiara shrugs him off, heaves her bag up from the floor. It comes with many around the body straps – across the chest, across the hips. Her and her mom had spent fifteen minutes last night adjusting them so they sit comfortably where they should. By the looks of it, JJ hasn’t so much as lengthened the shoulder straps of his.

“Not until we’re twenty five,” she reminds him, and he rolls his eyes.

They walk around the Chateau slowly, then Kiara takes a Snapchat of JJ standing in the living room looking desolate. The place actually looks reasonably clean – no dirty dishes, all surfaces clear. JJ’s even taken the trash out in a burst of forward planning which impresses Kiara.

Pope replies to the Snapchat with an extreme close up of his face pulled into a frown. Kiara shows JJ who smiles thinly, then resumes staring out the window and twisting the ring on his thumb. Her dad drives on the quicker side of normal. It still takes two and half hours to get to Norfolk, the closest airport. Her parents talk quietly amongst themselves in the front, her mom reaching around her seat to clasp at Kiara’s knee occasionally. Usually she’d push her away, but something sad pulls her mom’s lips down, so she allows it for today.

JJ’s pulled a pocket guide from somewhere and thumbs through the pages.

“Is that the first book you’ve ever read?” she jibes. He doesn’t reply. “Where’d you even get it?”

“Heyward,” JJ checks the front cover. “Said it might come in useful. I did tell him they have Google Maps in Europe.” He looks up, frowns. “They do have Maps in Europe, right?”

Kiara can’t help the smile. “They have Maps. Actually, in some places, they have free public wi-fi.”

“That’s cool,” he acknowledges. Folds down the corner of the page, even though Kiara’s not sure he’s actually read any of it. “The Cut could do with free wi-fi. Would make it so much easier after storms. God, Agatha knocked things out for like two months – it was awful. Had to watch all of John B’s DVDs and his dad has the worst taste. Kind of gross, actually.”

He’s tapping the toe of his boot against the car door, making a familiar beat that Kiara has learnt to tune out. Her parents are unused to the interruption. She can see her dad casting him snatched looks in the rear view mirror, his fingers tightening on the steering wheel. They don’t say anything. After the three weeks of unified grief and the subsequent trial, her parents have fallen into a ceasefire. The fact she’s bought their house and The Wreck and put it in their sole names also helps. They can no longer claim she has to better herself because she’s potentially worth more than the majority of the Kooks on the island.

They probably hope this whole running away thing is a phase. That she’ll be back to settle down soon enough. Part of her thinks that it may be true, but there’s only one way to find out for sure.

JJ stands off to the side whilst her parents hug her goodbye. Her mom cries, and even her dad’s eyes are glazed with unshed tears. He says, “look after yourself now, Kiara,” in a rough, emotional tone that’s almost enough to set her off.

Her mom hugs JJ briefly (he stands awkwardly and pats her on the shoulder twice, shooting Kiara a wide-eyed look), and then her dad’s shaking his hand. He says, “you look out for her. No, I mean it,” but it doesn’t sound too unfriendly. Just protective and loving.

“Dad,” Kiara rolls her eyes. “I can look after myself.”

“We know, honey,” her mom says, and she’s smoothing an escaped curl behind her ear and pressing a kiss to her cheek. “We’re just going to miss you so much.”

Kiara finally extracts herself, after a picture in front of the departures sign. Then a picture of her and JJ in front of the sign. Then a picture of her and her mom and JJ. It’s an entire performance, and she can still hear her mom’s stifled sobs as she walks away.

“Holy shit,” JJ says once they’re out of earshot. “Makes me glad for my dad.”

She pushes at his shoulder and he falls back like the drama queen he is, rubbing at the spot.

The airport is big, and pretty complicated. JJ hovers behind her as she squints at the signs to find the correct hall for bag drop off. The woman at the desk checks their passports and boarding passes and attaches a label to the top strap of each before placing them on the conveyor belt that carries them away.

Kiara frowns at JJ. “Where’s your passport? And ticket? You just had them.”

“Uh, in my bag.”

It takes fifteen minutes to negotiate for the bag to be returned from the conveyor belt, JJ looking almost sheepish as the check in operator jumps down from her seat and has to go and find someone superior. Kiara swats JJ around the head and he ducks out the way, pouting petulantly.

“It’s not like I’ve done this before,” he complains, but he shoots the woman a bright Maybank smile as she returns with his bag in hand. He retrieves the passport and pass from a side pocket.

“Classic JJ.” He follows as she leaves the desk. “I bet your bag ends up in a completely different country.”

“What, they can do that?”

“Not on purpose, I don’t think – but you’ve definitely fucked up the _feng shui_.”

She still has her carry on purse looped over one shoulder. JJ casts it a suspicious look.

“You’re all _ooo let’s put everything in smaller bags inside of a big bag_ and now you’ve got a separate purse? This tour guide sucks. I demand a refund.”

“This is just back up. Don’t worry, I have a spare pair of boxers in case your bag gets lost.”

Security’s next, and JJ keeps darting surreptitious looks to the signs that detail what’s permitted on the flight and what’s not.

“Hypothetically,” he starts, which means nothing from JJ Maybank, “if I had a penknife right now, what should I do?”

Closing her eyes, Kiara counts quickly to three and curses the very moment she had the idea of inviting JJ along. “Hypothetically, that’s supposed to go in your hold luggage. Even then, I’m not sure it’s allowed. Hypothetically, I would encourage you to drop it in the trash without anyone noticing.”

“Good talk,” his tone is bright, and a few seconds later there’s a faint clang from the inside of a trash can she determinedly does not look at.

He has to pull off all of his rings and place them in a tray to be x-rayed, and then his boots. He pouts as he walks through the scanner in his socks. Kiara takes a picture.

She loses him twice in duty free, has to drag him away from the reduced price cigarettes. He casts a mournful look over his shoulder.

“We have a layover,” she tells him, “I am not going through customs twice for you.”

There’s half an hour before their gate even gets announced, so Kiara trails slowly around the stores. Samples a few perfumes, spraying them onto her wrists. JJ gets distracted by the extensive alcohol selection, squatting in front of the shelves of whiskeys.

Their gate is announced and it’s one of the furthest away. Kiara takes both of their passports and boarding passes, and JJ bounces on his heels in the queue in a way which used to make Kiara feel sick. Instead she ignores him, flicking through his passport instead.

The picture they’d taken still looks like a mugshot, even in its shrunken format. “I still can’t believe your name is Jonathan James.”

“What, did you expect it to legally be JJ? Even my dad’s not that much of an asshole.” Calling his child a double consonant name would be last on the list of reasons why Luke Maybank is an asshole, but Kiara lets it slide. “There was only room for one John in third grade, and we all know John B is the alpha.”

If she’s not mistaken, he seems anxious about getting on the plane. As the queue to board decreases, his bouncing speed increases. Someone behind them shoots him a look. Kiara eventually swats at his shoulder with the passport.

“Stop it,” she commands. “You’re making me nauseous.”

His grin at the check in assistant is more nerves than anything else, all teeth and wide eyes. Kiara ensures her smile is less manic as their tickets are scanned. Then they’re walking down the tunnel, the plane doors in front of them.

“This is so cool,” JJ enthuses, as they’re met by someone else at the doors. “Can you believe humans actually figured out a way to transport hundreds of people in the air without crashing? Crazy.”

“Keep your voice down,” Kiara hisses, elbowing him in the side. “Some people don’t like flying. Don’t freak them out.”

Considering it’s his first flying experience, Kiara relents and gives him the window seat. He immediately pulls the window shade down, then pushes it back up again. Kiara retrieves her headphones, a packet of mints and her phone from her purse before storing it in the overhead locker. JJ is so close to the window he’s almost out of it, watching as the luggage gets loaded into the hold on the runway below.

He slumps in the seat, his knees touching the chair in front. He listens to the safety talk with rapt attention, clicking and unclicking his seatbelt to practice.

“You better move fast if we crash,” he advises her. “I won’t hesitate to trample you if you’re between me and the exit. Every man for himself.”

The woman sat in the aisle seat next to Kiara casts a wary look their way. The jets whirr into action somewhere behind them, and JJ casts her a furtive look as they begin building up speed along the runway. He presses himself against the window and watches as the land and sea fades away beneath them.

Kiara lends him the spare headphones she’s brought and tells him to watch a movie. All of the Pogues now share Sarah’s Netflix account, but JJ keeps using Pope’s profile.

Five minutes through _Ratatouille_ JJ pulls one earbud out. “How long’s the flight?”

“This one’s an hour and a half, then we have an hour layover at JKF and it’s seven and a half to London. They’re four hours ahead, so technically we’ll get there at around six. Then factor in the connection to city centre – maybe seven, eight. Just in time for breakfast.”

JJ groans and rolls his head back against the seat. “I’m beginning to see why rich people get pills for this shit.”

Kiara hands him a mint when she realises they’re descending to land. “Suck on it,” she encourages him, “landing can really fuck with your ears.”

“That’s what she said,” he mutters back, but the mint clacks against his teeth as he speaks. He gasps but tries to hide it as the plane bumps down on landing, then glances over his shoulder as someone near the back applauds.

“People who clap are do good assholes,” he decides, as they wait in the aisle to file off the plane. Everyone’s jumped up as soon as the seatbelt sign blinks off, but JJ’s tall and blocks people from jostling into her. She’s not even sure he realises. “Like the pilot can hear them. I don’t applaud the ferry guy every time we go to the mainland. It’s literally his job.”

“Also, Greg is a complete dick,” Kiara points out.

“True that. Absolutely drunk on power.”

They get funnelled down a separate exit due to their connecting flight. Their duty free is subsequently a lot smaller, but they skip having to go through security again.

Kiara goes to the bathroom and brushes her teeth. When she gets back JJ is holding a plastic bag filled with an inordinate amount of cigarettes.

“JJ,” she complains.

“They’re basically giving them away. It would be a crime not to.”

“I thought you were vaping now?”

JJ shrugs. “They were cheap. Also, let’s not act like you’re going to be stealing a quarter of these.”

The hour layover is long enough to grab a subpar burrito which mostly consists of rice. JJ practically inhales his, then jumps on Kiara’s leftovers.

He buys an extensive amount of candy and chips. Kiara drags him around the terminal to search for a water fountain to fill up her Chilly’s bottle. He complains about it, but then drinks a whole bottle full when offered.

“This is the furthest I’ve been from home,” he admits as they stand on the tarmac at the bottom of the plane’s steps. “I can’t believe we’re in New York.”

“I can’t believe you’ve never been to New York.” Kiara has been almost every year. Her mom considered being able to navigate around a big city a vital life skill.

“Yeah, dad wasn’t such a fan of the extracurricular trips,” he says these things now in small snippets, in a self-deprecating tone. Something which he’s been keeping under wraps for years, and is now common knowledge. Kiara’s careful not to react, keeping still and looking the other way.

“We went every year – me and mom. I think she just liked the shopping.”

“Ah yes, shopping. Kiara’s favourite hobby.”

She takes a photo of him staring out of the airplane window and posts it to her Instagram with the classic _goodbye USA_ caption. Pope sends a Snap to the Pogue Snapchat group, his chin propped in his hand. _Wish I was going with you._

Kiara takes a picture of JJ as he attempts to balance a jolly rancher on his nose. _Rather you than me._

JJ opens them later, once Kiara’s plugged her headphones in to the inflight screen and is scrolling through the available films. He’s smiling as he opens them. She thinks she sees him save the one of Pope.

Kiara falls asleep during the first film, head against the seat. She wakes up when the seat moves, then sits up, realising she’s slumped against JJ’s shoulder, pressed into him. He’s leaning against the side, and his eyes slide open when she moves away, like he’s not relaxed since her head made contact with his shoulder. Kiara wipes the back of her hand across her mouth, pushes at a crick in her neck. JJ smells like salt and sea.

John B falls asleep on JJ, and JJ falls asleep on Pope. JJ shares beds with everyone – creeping under the covers like some sort of gremlin. But he maintains a careful distance from Kiara. It feels like you have to be invited to touch JJ – he flinches away from easy, idle touches. He’s used to shoves and punches, but she never tries anything more. Just waits for what he has to offer.

She used to think it was because he was the epitome of toxic masculinity and heteronormative affection. But she’s seen him koala-ing John B, pressing a kiss to Pope’s cheek. Curling into their sides in the hammock. He just hasn’t quite let her into the JJ casual affection zone.

“Sorry,” she says, because there are some boundaries somewhere, undefined and vague, but she definitely shouldn’t trample them.

“’s fine,” his voice is blurred with sleep. “Nice to know I have my uses.”

They fall back asleep (Kiara keeps herself rigidly within the confines of her own seat), but she’s woken up by JJ grabbing her wrist.

“Kie,” he says and his voice is low and urgent, panic bleeding into it. She jolts awake, then jolts again, and there’s a low muttering from the passengers. The seatbelt light blinks on.

“It’s okay,” she says, because JJ’s staring at her with wide eyes. “It’s just turbulence. Planes are built for this.”

“The wings are _bending_ ,” he insists, and he’s squinting into the darkness out the window. The plane shudders again, then drops. JJ looks over his shoulder to her. He hasn’t dropped her wrist.

The flight attendants are still milling about in the aisle. “Look, they’re not expecting it to be too bad. It’s fine.”

The plane drops again, then immediately lurches upwards. Someone cries out.

“Flight crew to their seats,” says a disembodied voice over the speaker. “Passengers and crew, we will shortly be experiencing some light turbulence.”

The plane shakes, jerks sideways. JJ’s grip on her wrist isn’t tight enough to hurt, but firm enough that she can feel his clammy palm.

“Let’s make a playlist,” she decides. “A roadtrip playlist.”

The panic in his eyes doesn’t ease, stays bright. “The fuck?”

“Playlist.” She’s already got her phone in her hand, opened Spotify. “You can choose one song per place, and we’ll add another one everywhere we go. So far we’ve got Outer Banks and New York.”

“I’m not sure they count as different places, Kie. They’re the same country.”

“Whatever. What’s your Outer Banks song?”

He sits back in his seat and he’s considering it, his fingers still looped gently around her wrist. Music is a serious concept to the Pogues. They’ve spent hours curating the perfect playlists, have a different one for every mood. John B was often shunned for liking _some grimy shit_ and Pope veered towards the completely obscure.

“Leon Bridges,” he decides eventually. “River.”

She’s plugged in her earbuds, hands him one. He drops her wrist to take it from her, and Kiara presses play. She recognises it from one of Pope’s playlist, the easy, smooth vocals. JJ’s closed his eyes, tipped his head back against the fabric of his seat. There is something so intimate about music. Thinking of JJ listening to this song, relating to the lyrics. There’s a line which mentions momma and her heart tightens for the boy next to her. The song ends quietly, and Kiara looks at JJ. “Well, that was depressing as fuck.”

She selects hers next. The familiar whistle note of _Home_ by Edward Sharp and the Magnetic Zeroes is a bright contrast to the previous one. JJ regards her with something akin to disappointment.

“You can’t have a song called home,” he protests. “That’s cheating.”

“I made up the game, I’m calling the shots.”

They’re silent, listening. JJ’s tapping the bass out with one hand. John B likes to do the falsetto of the female singer; Pope likes to lower his voice to a male baritone.

“Such a cliché,” JJ complains, but he’s half smiling and his shoulders are less tense, so she considers it a win.

The turbulence has passed. JJ stretches, knocks the earbud from his ear, then folds his arms and rests against the side again.

There must be some existential law regarding why travelling is so exhausting. All they’ve done is sit in various positions. Sit is perhaps a loose term for JJ – he’s reclined, sprawled, his knee or his foot constantly moving. When awake, he flips between films, mostly giving up after the first twenty minutes. Kiara has to get up three times to let him out to go to the bathroom, and she thinks it’s just for something to do.

They finally land, heavier than the New York landing. She will never stop being underwhelmed at the sight of airports. The low slung, expansive hangers; the functional concrete.

They have to take a shuttle bus to the terminal. JJ is tense, pressed against the window by a couple with excessive luggage. He catches her eye over their shoulder, pulls a horrified expression. Holds his duty free bag like a shield between them.

“She smelt like shit,” he complains, and his voice is definitely loud enough to reach the woman in question. Kiara realises JJ doesn’t care about that.

They have to go through passport control. A stern looking man stares hard at JJ and his passport. JJ stares defiantly back reflexively. By the time they’re through, the bags have stared their slow procession on the luggage carousel.

JJ is unusually quiet, almost surly. He’d eaten an unprecedented amount of candy on the flight and Kiara’s not entirely sure how much sleep he actually got. Her bag reaches them first, and JJ lifts it clear. Ten minutes passes and his still hasn’t appeared.

“I swear to God,” his tone is blank. “I will riot. I will fuck shit up. If my bag is in another fucking country – never mind.” He pulls at the navy blue strap, dragging it onto the floor, and then onto his back. “Let’s go.”

They don’t even have to leave the building to get a train. It takes three goes for her to select the right tickets at the touch screen kiosk, but she manages it. They have to run down the escalator, bags bumping against their backs, and dart through the sliding doors just before they beep cheerfully and slide shut.

The train is mostly empty thanks to the early hour, so they take their bags off and slump on rows opposite each other.

“What’s the conversion rate?” JJ asks.

“What?”

“The pound-dollar rate.”

“One twenty five to a pound, roughly. It used to be loads better, but then they voted for Brexit and things went to shit.” He’s looking at her almost curiously. Kiara scrounges the best of her vague knowledge. “So after World War two, most of the European countries got together and signed a peace treaty and created the European Union. Now it’s basically a big trade group and most countries have a single currency – the Euro – and they pass laws at a higher level than the member states.”

“Kind of like the US, then.”

“Yeah but no. There’s a bigger difference in cultures or something. Anyway, Britain decided that they’re way too important for all that shit, held a vote for the public, and now they’re leaving. They’ve asked the EU to be nice and give them a fair trade deal, but other members have said no, fuck you, so they might get screwed over. The jury’s out on whether it’s an awful or a shitty idea.”

“That seems fair. I’d tell them to fuck themselves too.”

She’s warming to the subject. To the stupid amount of research she’s done, falling down a rabbit hole. She likes politics, okay? All it took was one cultural reference on the Good Place and she’s off. “Actually, it’s pretty fucked up. I think if you sign a peace treaty that’s held up until now, then you should probably stick by it. The Union has done some really good things for the environment and workers rights. They say how many hours in a week you can work, and that you have to have a certain amount of vacation days. And they have a specialist Court for human rights violations – fuck, I wish we had that – so all in all, it’s a pretty good deal. But no, straight white men get nervous of being held to account, and boom, World War Three. Maybe.”

“Perhaps we should send you in to sort shit out. You’ll annoy people into listening to your spiel about turtles and dolphins.”

“They also regulate food for human consumption, so theoretically everything in Europe is of a higher standard than the US. We chlorinate chicken and that is like, so bad for us, and the environment.”

“God bless ‘Merica,” he mutters, and he’s leaning back and closing his eyes. “Land of the unfree workers and bleached chickens.”

Once off the train, they have to navigate through the barriers. Their tickets are swallowed, and Kiara’s bag gets trapped. She is rescued by a dour looking rail employee, who smacks her gum and doesn’t even blink when Kiara thanks her.

London is loud and bustling, coaxing itself to life as they step out from the station. According to Maps, their hostel is a six minute walk away. JJ makes her turn the directions to silent.

“Do you want to broadcast the fact you’re a tourist?” he protests. “May as well slap a sign on your forehead and ask to be jumped.”

The hostel Kiara’s chosen for their first few nights seems used to crumpled travellers turning up a solid eight hours before their designated check in time. The British accent is jolting to hear, their T’s prominent. It’s a lot like the movie depiction of accents, sounds almost fake. They leave their backpacks in a side room which doesn’t scream high security to Kiara, but she makes sure they hold onto their passports and their money.

There’s a bathroom off the small foyer, and Kiara changes from her leggings to a pair of cut off shorts and a crop top. Then throws a shirt over the top, because it’s cooler here. She has a backpack for this precise scenario and fills up her water bottle by angling it under the mixer tap of the sink. Some spills onto the floor, but she drags the toe of her converse over the puddle and figures it’s as good as new.

JJ had changed first, just exchanging the track pants for a pair of shorts. He’s braced his arms on the counter and smiling at the pretty blonde on reception. The blonde is twirling a strand of hair around her finger. Kiara re-joins them.

“There’s a really good café around the corner,” the check in assistant pulls a colourful map from the front desk and opens it up, circling a spot a block over. The map doesn’t make any sense as Kiara squints at it.

“We’re going to get so lost,” JJ determines. The streets are sprawling, turning and twisting and splitting off. They walk past old buildings, then new buildings, then a homeless person, then three people marching in sharp suits. Kiara’s shoulders ache from carrying her bag, and she suddenly feels like an ant in a thousand acre field.

Something must show on her face, because JJ shoots her a look. “Let’s eat,” he decides, and they wordlessly abandon trying to find the recommended café and instead duck into the closest one.

Kiara drops into an empty seat and JJ goes to the counter and orders drinks. He comes back with two menus, on tiny little chalkboards, and he’s looking at them as though their very existence offends him.

“This is full Kook,” he says with mild disgust. There’s a bell above the door that tinkles merrily every time someone comes in or out. The air smells of coffee and there’s an inordinate amount of plants, crammed onto every ledge.

He’s ordered her an iced tea and himself an Americano coffee, which the waitress puts down with an ironic lifting of her eyebrows, as though she’s overheard their accents. The iced tea is definitely not iced tea, by Kiara’s standards. It’s under sweetened and sharp and tastes too distinctly of tea – but after a few sips, it’s not too bad.

JJ’s squinting into his coffee cup. “What do you think an Americano is?”

“What does it taste like?”

He takes a sip, swills it round his mouth. Tips his head back as though to gargle it, but Kiara kicks him lightly in the shin. “Black coffee?”

She steals a sip, and he snatches hers off her to return the favour. It does taste like black coffee.

They both order a full English breakfast, whatever that is. It comes with a volley of questions from the server.

“How would you like your eggs? Poached, scrambled, fried? And your bread – white or brown?”

JJ chooses fried and white. Kiara chooses poached and brown. It apparently comes with a complimentary orange juice, which is in a thimble sized glass.

“I don’t think they do refills here,” JJ is looking around blatantly, watching everyone. The street outside is bustling, people marching past the window. They’re a splash of colour in the midst of business wear.

Big square plates are placed in front of them. They both look at it in unified intrigue. There’s whole, huge mushrooms, and beans in a pale orange sauce. A dry looking triangular hash brown. Two eggs. Toast on the side. Bacon which is thick cut and looks like it’s merely walked through a warm kitchen. The links sausages are huge.

“We ain’t in Kansas anymore, Toto,” JJ comments, and then he spears a mushroom vigorously.

“Who has beans before 10am?” Kiara laments. “And what’s with this sad tomato? Why is it warm?” She takes a hesitant forkful of beans. “God, this is criminally under-seasoned.”

JJ finishes doubly as quickly as she does, then finishes anything she leaves once she’s pushed her plate away. Kiara feels better, even slightly accomplished as they ask for the check and each pull out crisp pound notes.

The street is emptier of people heading to work, but is filled with people in casual clothes, tourists with cameras. They look precisely like two kids from Outer Banks, a shark tooth necklace around JJ’s neck and a bandana in her hair. They haven’t showered, she’s exhausted and jet lagged, and she’s never seen JJ around so many buildings or people in her life. He’s pulled out a packet of cigarettes and his lighter, clamps one between his lips and sparks up.

“So,” JJ looks at her, exhales smoke. “What next, chief?”


	3. london - newquay.

*

“What do you mean you don’t have a plan?” JJ sounds more confused than angry, but it still makes Kiara defensive.

“This is my plan. Travel the world. We have travelled. We’ve got a place to stay. _Voila_. Plan executed.”

JJ stares blankly at her for a minute and Kiara stares right back, chin tipped up in challenge. Finally he snorts and pulls out his phone, dragging on his cigarette. “Shit to do in London,” he types as he speaks, and then scrolls through the hits. “Let’s go see the Queen’s crib.”

They have to take the underground – JJ informs Kiara grandly that it’s called the Tube in London. JJ trails a hand over the laminated sign, makes a mental note of the stops they’re supposed to take, then lets Kiara buy the tickets. She buys an all day pass and reluctantly relinquishes control over JJ’s.

The Tube stop isn’t far from the palace and they walk in silence. There’s a park in front of it and tourists everywhere. They stop in front of the gates and look across the expanse between them and the ridiculously sized building.

“Huh, looks kind of like the White House,” JJ concludes. Tourists bustle around them with selfie sticks and broad rimmed hats. “The flag’s up though, so that means she’s there.”

Kiara looks at him sideways. “You watch too many movies.”

They go to London Bridge, the Houses of Parliament. Big Ben. It’s a lot of standing and looking at things, and she thinks JJ’s as bored as she is.

The next time they’re on the Tube for half an hour. It’s sweaty and the air is stale. She’s tied her shirt around her waist and re-done her hair, pulling it all off her neck. JJ keeps pulling his shirt away from his back, fanning himself. He won’t tell her where they’re going, keeps locking his phone or moving away when she tries to look at the screen.

“If it’s another white person building, I swear to God,” she threatens, and he just slides her a sideways look.

The escalators out of the Tube are steep, then there’s the barrier and a plethora of steps before they make it to the surface. JJ’s cell service resumes, and he squints at his phone. “About twenty minutes,” he tells her, and he strides off with his stupidly long legs and pace. Kiara is thankful for her Converse as she scrambles to keep up.

He eventually stops in front of wrought iron gates with grey stone pillars. There’s a sign which states _Kew Gardens_ to the side, and an expanse of green beyond the gates.

“Gardens? What – am I a middle-aged white woman? The fuck, JJ.”

“Girls love plants,” JJ explains patiently. “And you love nature.”

It’s not just plants. There’s a huge palm house which is warm and the air is damp, and when she breathes in it smells of pollen and shrubbery and damp soil. There’s a pond with giant lily pads, and ferns brush against her arm as she walks past.

JJ circles in the opposite direction to her, and once she’s had her fill she finds him outside the main doors smoking. He smirks when she emerges, feeling the best she has all day.

“Shut up,” she tells him, and he holds a hand up in pacification.

Outside there’s a garden of bamboo, countless different species of trees, and a huge, weird sculpture. They walk slowly, and then JJ scales one of the trees when she isn’t looking.

“Alright, Tarzan. Don’t fall down. And don’t snap any branches!”

When she moves further up the pathway he swings down easily, landing with a muffled thud behind her.

There’s a nursery for carnivorous plants – Kiara slaps JJ’s hand as he tries to prod a Venus fly trap. “You can kill them,” she hisses. “They put all their energy into closing thinking it’s food. Don’t tease the plants.”

They buy a pastry from the onsite café and sit on a low wall outside, grease shining on their lips. JJ looks at it critically. “I don’t think much of British cuisine.”

“I’m looking forward to French the most,” Kiara takes another bite. “Those cheese eaters know their way around a kitchen.”

“Surely Italian’s the winner,” JJ drops a piece of the so-called sausage roll on the floor. Picks it up quickly and shoves it into his mouth. “Pasta? Pizza? C’mon, Kie, are you even trying?”

She falls asleep on the Tube on the way back to their hostel, head lolling to the side. JJ opts to stand, and kicks her gently in the shins when they have to swap lines. He misses their stop twice, so they have to run to the other platform and jump into the carriage. Kiara glares at him but it’s half hearted and lacking any real heat.

There’s someone different on reception, and Kiara is half surprised to see their bags untouched in the side room they’ve left them in. They’re taken to a dorm and shown their bunk – it’s for six people, and only two of the other bunk beds are occupied, judging by the belongings on them. The walls are a bland cream, with some mass produced art hung near the door. But the sheets are white, and everything seems clean enough, so she’s not going to complain.

“I think you’re in luck,” the receptionist checks his clipboard. “Just you four in here tonight and tomorrow. Bathroom’s down the hall, and we’ve got you down for four nights?”

JJ stopped listening and has slung his bag onto the top bunk, scrambling up the ladder with energy Kiara wishes she had. Fatigue pulls at every muscle, her shoulders slumped, and she supresses three yawns as the man keeps speaking, explaining where the bathrooms were and the kitchen and the communal area.

“Thank you,” she says eventually, and it cuts him off mid-sentence as he starts talking about the London Eye. He takes the hint and leaves after handing over two swipe cards. Kiara flicks one at JJ’s forehead through the bars of the bed.

There’s silence as he leaves and Kiara thinks if she sits down she won’t get back up. She roots out her toothbrush and toothpaste and vetoes a shower, even though she’s grimy and probably smells less than optimal.

The bathroom is small, containing a toilet and a sink. She almost falls into the toilet as she changes, sandals squeaking on the linoleum. She downs an entire bottle of water and some spills down her chin and onto her oversized t-shirt, but she doesn’t have the energy to care.

JJ hasn’t moved by the time she gets back. One hand dangles over the side of the bunk, and he’s squinting at his phone.

“Brush your teeth, you filthy bastard,” she tells him, then she kicks off her shoes, climbs between the sheets and doesn’t wake up for ten hours.

It takes a few seconds for her to remember where she is when she wakes up. The dormitory is quiet when she sits up, and it’s 8am when she checks her phone. There’s one other person asleep in a top bunk (apart from JJ, who’s sprawled out still dressed on top of the covers), so Kiara moves as quietly as she can to pull her shower bag and a change of clothes. Thankfully, her efficient system of packing cubes makes the process easier.

JJ hasn’t even cracked an eyelid, so she leaves him to sleep and hunts down the showers.

The showers are in cubicles, with a flimsy plastic shower curtain separating her and anyone else who walked through the door. She hangs her towel (microfibre, lightweight and ethically sourced) on the hook, then tries to contort herself to get undressed without letting any clothes touch the wet floor. The shower’s stream is more of a weak trickle and it takes five minutes for her hair to get sufficiently wet before she can even justify using her overpriced shampoo.

Whilst she’s there she brushes her teeth, then has to go through a contortion of trying to get dressed without touching the now-damp walls of the cubicle. It’s an entire performance, but she feels better now she’s clean and troops into the dormitory feeling refreshed.

JJ’s finally awake, his phone screen illuminating his face. In the absence of a proper hair turban she’s used a cotton t-shirt, and she starts rooting in her backpack for her hair and body products. The air smells of chocolate as she rubs cocoa butter into her skin, then various products through her hair.

“Pope says we should check out the Churchill War Rooms,” JJ says, and Kiara’s not even surprised that Pope still manages to be the planner despite being on a separate continent. JJ breaths in. “Something smells like chocolate. Also, I’m hungry.”

He climbs down the ladder and his gaze flicks over her briefly. Over her shorts, and the loose tank top she’s chosen with a bandeau underneath.

“Gimme five,” his voice is still hoarse with sleep, and he yawns around the words. Pulls his bag from the locker and roots around. He wanders off vaguely a minute later in what Kiara hopes is the direction of the showers.

Kiara researches the War Rooms (and by research, she goes on Tripadvisor and reads reviews) until JJ comes back, hair damp and chest bare.

“You’re such an exhibitionist,” she grumbles when she’s met with the sight of his bare chest. “Put some clothes on.”

“The receptionist wasn’t complaining,” he smirks, but he’s pulling on a faded t-shirt anyway.

They have to take the Tube again, and it feels like her whole life is queuing up and buying tickets for things. They’re better at navigating the lines today, and she has more energy and optimism than yesterday.

The War Rooms are surprisingly fascinating. The tour guide explains what life was life, including the fact that telegram operators and decoders had to live in the bunker 24/7, and stand in front of weird lamps to get their UV allowance. Even JJ remains interested; any hint of war or violence or spies and the boy is enraptured. There are recordings of Winston Churchill’s speeches and they manage to affect her even now, years later.

“Of course, they glossed over the fact he was a massive racist and believed in eugenics. And he advocated heavy use of chemical weapons,” they’re circling the gift shop slowly, and JJ’s flicking at a display of pencils. She raises an eyebrow at him as his hand drifts towards his pocket, and he grins innocently back.

“He was a war president,” JJ points out. “You can’t expect him to be peaceful in his approach.”

“Prime minister,” she corrects offhandedly. “And he didn’t like Gandhi either. Who doesn’t like Gandhi? He is the political pacifists dream.”

“Once again, war Prime Minister. Liked fighting. In the war.”

“I’m not saying that Gandhi is unproblematic – because he so is. Racist and misogynistic, but then most men in power like to shit on women.”

“They did say they couldn’t have won the war without the code breakers, most of which were women. And the factory workers, the nurses, the firefighters,” JJ recalls, as they queue for the cashier.

Kiara scoffs. “Women only got the limelight because all the men were off fighting – or being slaughtered needlessly, depends how you look at it. The working class are always the pawns of the elite.” JJ’s looking at her sideways, amusement curling at his lips. “Still, it’s good to have a non-American centric view of the war. If you believe Pearl Harbour, the US swooped in and saved the day.”

“You mean a movie told an unrealistic account of a historical event?” JJ gasps. “Tell me it’s not so!”

Kiara punches his shoulder but he’s already moved out of the way. “Whatever, loser,” she tells him, but she’s smiling as the pin she’s chosen gets rung up.

They go to Camden Markets for lunch, because Kiara had actually done some research this morning. The crowds are extensive and they get split up a few times. JJ gets distracted by a stall that’s purchasing glassware, including a tiny glass pipe.

He emerges by her side as she’s studying a stall with handmade sterling silver earrings. According to the sign, they’re made of scrap metal and other recycled materials. She has a pair of union jack ones in her hand and is turning them over thoughtfully.

“They’re cool,” JJ assesses, and he has a plastic cup of what looks like juice in one hand.

“Yeah, but I don’t want to promote white colonisation,” she sighs, and the stall owner laughs at her.

“If it makes you feel better, all profits go towards a women’s refuge,” the woman says, and she’s looking at her with appreciation or something else. The ends of her hair are dyed pink, and she has an undercut which reminds Kiara of Natalie Dormer. It’s not a bad look.

Kiara picks a different pair, a pair of turtles. The woman hands back her change and a card. “We do a slam poetry night in a pub near here on Wednesday’s. Next one’s tomorrow. You should come.”

Kiara buys a tray of sushi and JJ buys a _banh mi_ , carrot falling out from between the bread. He scrunches his nose up at her sushi, and then reluctantly tries one. She uses the chopsticks to manoeuvre it into his mouth, and he’s frowning at her.

He chews slowly, considering.

“Good, right?” she prompts, and she’s dipping her next roll daintily into soy sauce.

“’S’okay,” he relents eventually. “I suppose it’s not _awful_. Still – raw fish. Gross.”

He won’t let her near his banh mi, elbows her in the jaw when she tries to take a bite.

They escape the bustle of the market and go to Portobello Road. Apparently it makes some of the best gin in London, and Kiara’s not at all surprised that JJ’s research into things to do apparently only extends to alcohol.

It throws her that she’s actually considered of age at eighteen. Years of hiding alcohol or bluffing with fake IDs, wearing low cut tops and smiling secretly at store owners have not prepared her for walking into a fancy bar and being able to order straight off the menu.

JJ’s done his time behind a bar, so he asks for something off the top of his head. The bar worker appraises him approvingly, eyes lingering longer than strictly necessary as they prepare something with mint and cucumber.

“Ask for recommendations,” JJ encourages, as Kiara stalls over the menu and tries to decide. Gin has never been in her alcoholic repertoire – her knowledge extends to warm beer, cold beer, and the occasional whiskey John B scrounged from his dad. Maybe a glass or two of wine with Sarah Cameron in her Kook year. She still can’t drink it without feeling sick.

Eventually she opts for a straight up gin and tonic, and scowls at the first sip. It’s bitter and weird. “Keep going,” JJ tells her. “It gets better.”

“You should like something at the first taste, not have to be drunk to suffer it,” she complains, but she takes a few more quick gulps, and it does get better. They sit outside at a small table on the sidewalk, the chairs wobbling every time they shift. JJ stretches out his legs and people have to step over them, or bump into them, but he doesn’t seem to care.

She takes a picture of him reclining in the sun, sunglasses low on his nose. Posts it to the _Pogues (plus Sarah)_ group chat.

**John B [3:18]:** FULL KOOK

**Sarah [3:19]:** is that something other than beer???

**Kie [3:19]:** Gin and tonic – British speciality apparently

**Pope [3:20]:** Will wonders ever cease

**Pope [3:20]:** How were the war rooms?

She sends another picture of JJ listening to the tour guide. It’s slightly blurred due to the shitty lighting of the rooms, but she thinks it makes her point.

**Kie [3:21]:** We’ve been invited to a slam poetry night tomorrow

**John B [3:21]:** I would pay to see that

**JJ [3:21]:** were not GOING tho are we??? KIE

**Pope [3:22]:** wow, such culture, wow

JJ’s smirking over the table, locks his phone and puts it back down. “Any plans for the rest of the day?”

The drink is going down a lot easier now she’s halfway through. “How about getting drunk?”

“Oh, I thought you’d never ask.”

He makes them stay and drink more gin, but he orders her whatever he’s been having. The cucumber makes it less bitter which makes it easier to drink and thus more dangerous.

They move onto a different bar, one which is wood panelled and has thick cushions on high backed chairs. There are battered board games on each table. They drink Camden Lager because they’ve been to Camden, and it’s heavier and bubblier than American beer.

JJ beats her twice at Go Fish and then swipes a hand across the Scrabble board, sending the tiles scattering across the table.

“Discrimination,” he accuses, “against those who can’t spell.”

It’s ten before they stumble to the closest Tube station. JJ whines that he’s hungry and orders a kebab from a still open take-away. Kiara looks on in horror as the server picks up what looks like a pair of hair clippers and shaves flakes of something masquerading as meat from a rotating spit. It gets put into a styrofoam tray with curling lettuce and tomato and cucumber, all pushed into a pitta and coated with chilli sauce.

Lettuce hits the sidewalk when he bites into it, and sauce drips down his chin. Kiara calls him gross and he opens his mouth whilst he chews in retaliation. He’s also ordered fries, but they’re thick cut and not crispy. They’re still good, and Kiara steals several whilst he finishes his so-called kebab.

“That’s not a kebab,” she says is disgust.

Someone nearby hears, a brunette girl who’s clearly also had more than a couple of drinks. “It’s a shish kebab,” they explain, and their friend has looped their arm over their shoulders. “It’s Turkish.”

“It’s gross,” Kiara mutters, as the girl’s whisked away. “What meat is grey?”

JJ has to snatch her back onto the sidewalk twice when they re-commence their journey to the Tube station. Traffic comes from the opposite side of the road to normal, which completely throws off her street smarts. Thankfully JJ is one step ahead, watchful, grabbing her shoulder or her shirt roughly.

“There’s a pond in a park where you can go swimming,” she says into the semi-darkness, once they’ve collapsed onto their respective bunks. “We should go tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

She reminds him of his agreement in the morning, when she’s slapping his calves to wake him up. He groans and pushes his face into his pillow. “Kie,” he pleads, “I barely slept. They came in at like 1am and basically had a party.”

The other occupants of the room (now three strong) had come in early, but they’d mostly been respectful. Kept their voices to a quiet mumble and not turned the main light on. Kiara had managed to doze through it.

“Alright, princess. They whispered the whole time. Get up! The pond awaits.”

“Swimming in a pond sounds like the worst idea ever.”

She cajoles him out of bed by buying a coffee and two chocolate croissants from the bakery across the road, leaving them at the bottom of the ladder and refusing to pass them to him despite his bargaining pleas. Eventually he pulls himself down, almost landing on the croissant. He snatches the bag up and sits on her bed instead, eating the pastries messily and accidentally on purpose sprinkling flaky crumbs across her sheets.

He’s topless because he runs ridiculously hot, his hair rumpled with sleep. Some girl comes in to retrieve a sweatshirt from their bunk and does a double take, which he definitely notices. Kiara thinks he even flexes his arms.

“Hurry your ass up,” she whines, as she readjusts the strap of her bikini under her shirt. It’s her favourite, a string turquoise one which she thinks goes well with her skin. The only downside is that it’s slightly on the small side, but not indecently so.

The dorm is empty again, so Kiara puts on _Home_ just to annoy him, and dances as she pulls her hair onto her head and ties it in place with a band from her wrist. She’s just hit the spoken word in the middle and turns towards him, rolling her eyes when she sees him recording her.

“Sexy,” he drawls, and he’s sending the video off somewhere into the ether.

It takes an unreasonable amount of time to get to Hampstead Heath. She gets bored and challenges JJ to several games of rock, paper, scissors on the journey over, and every time he wins he slams his fist into hers in victory.

From the description she’s not entirely sure what she was expecting – but it’s definitely a pond, in a park. There’re no lockers, but JJ is already peeling off his clothes and leaving them in a haphazard pile. Kiara follows suit, hiding their phones and wallets at the bottom of her purse as if it’ll make a difference. JJ’s taken a running jump down the jetty and cannon balled in – he emerges, spluttering water, swiping his hair back from his forehead and flopping onto his back.

“It’s cold as fuck!” he calls to her, and everyone who he splashed or disturbed or launched over is staring at him, and then her. Kiara is more docile, sitting on the jetty and immersing herself up to her ankles.

JJ swims up and pulls her in by her ankles, giving her a moment of warning with a quirked eyebrow before he yanks her from her seat. Kiara yelps, then pushes off from the jetty with her hands to stop it scraping her back. When she surfaces JJ’s swum away, but she races after him and jumps on his back, pushing him under the water in retaliation. His skin is slick with water, and cool – the sun may be shining brightly, but Britain and Outer Banks have a very different idea of what constitutes as warm weather.

They race each other to buoys in the water, then back to the jetty. JJ does a flip off the wooden platform, whooping when he lands it.

“Bet you can’t get to that buoy in ten seconds,” she challenges him, and he takes off cussing, arms cutting through the water as she counts down. She tires quicker than him, swimming slow laps, as JJ loops around her like a golden retriever.

There are showers, but only for women. JJ calls it sexist and shakes his pond drenched hair all over her when she emerges from them, flopping onto the grass next to him. He’s not changed, still stretched out in just his board shorts. They attract some looks from passers-by.

He says, “I’m assuming there’s nowhere to surf in London.”

“We’ve been gone four days,” Kiara closes her eyes and tilts her face to the sun. JJ’s tearing handfuls of grass out of the ground, peeling strands apart.

JJ shrugs. “It’s the only thing I’m any good at.” His tone isn’t sad, just factual.

“I don’t know, you’re pretty good at being an annoying little shit.”

He smiles at that, smiles at her. “This is supposed to be my vacation.”

“I solemnly swear that before your three weeks are up, we will find somewhere for you to surf.”

He gets bored after another five minutes and goes off searching for sustenance. Kiara reads a Washington Post article her mom’s linked her to, not even noticing when someone blocks her sun.

“Hi,” says the stranger, and he has dark hair, a square jaw, a navy button down and pale chinos on. Their hair is tousled in a way that definitely requires mousse. “I couldn’t not stop and say – wow, you’re beautiful. In a haven’t-tried way.”

Kiara doesn’t want to blush but feels it rising anyway, making her ears warm and creeping up her cheeks. “Oh,” she says, and it’s smaller and quieter than she wants it to be. “Thanks? I guess.”

No one’s ever been so forward, so direct. She thinks the attention is purely because she’s only put her shorts back on, the bikini top bright against her skin. Not exactly leaving much to the imagination, as her mom would say.

“American girls just have such… confidence? Wouldn’t you say. You just – you don’t care what people think. There you are. Take you or leave you. I respect that.”

It sounds a little like high grade negging. Kiara frowns. “So you… don’t like British women?”

“Oh no,” the guy has a relaxed, composed smile. Like he’s practiced it in the mirror, to strike a balance between confident and not too cocky. “They’re great.”

Her phone buzzes in her hand and Kiara glances at it.

_Pogues (plus Sarah)_

**JJ [1:47]:** KIE’S BEING HIT ON

It’s accompanied by a distant shot of her, sitting on the floor, and the guy above her. The guy’s still looking down at her, still smiling vacantly, and Kiara’s not sure she likes this scenario.

“Just – Americans know what they want. They’re straightforward. Some say a bit loud and annoying, but that’s the payoff, I guess,” he chuckles a little, and he’s still looking at her as though she should be grateful for these crumbs he’s throwing her way.

**Kie [1:48]:** Help

**JJ [1:49]:** oh shit

**Pope [1:49]:** OMG JJ

“Does this technique usually work?” she queries, and the grin finally drops into confusion.

“What, calling a girl beautiful? Can’t help it if it’s the truth.”

“Yeah, and you then called all Americans loud and annoying, and insinuated British girls are prudes. Sorry, but negging isn’t going to work on me.”

“God, you can’t even give anyone a compliment these days,” his lip’s curling, all pretence dropped. “And I take it back. You’re not beautiful. And yes, all Americans are loud, annoying sluts.”

“Oh God,” JJ’s materialised, striding towards them. His shoulders are relaxed and down, and his lips are quirked upwards at the corners. His eyes are cold and hard. “She hates that word.”

And Kiara does – because there’s no male equivalent. She also hates that she’s emboldened by JJ’s presence, that some primal fear uncurls from her internal organs. That she can now stop calculating whether she’d be able to outrun this guy, whether he’d chase her.

“Fuck off, asshole,” she snaps.

JJ stands a few metres away, chewing on something idly, but Kiara can tell he’s assessed the situation. The guy looks to him, then to Kiara, then retreats. He throws “stuck up bitch,” over his shoulder from several feet away.

She feels stupid and small as she reaches for her shirt, pulls it over her head. JJ collapses onto the grass next to her.

“You sure told him,” he says wryly, and it’s the wrong thing but also the right thing to say because it makes her scowl and anger is better than feeling defenceless.

“Guess self-entitled Kook assholes are a universal thing,” she sniffs.

JJ Maybank is the last person she’d ever consider for comfort. They sit in silence until, “chocolate? Turns out European chocolate is actually pretty good.”

He snaps her off a line from the bar, and it’s better than pretty good.

At the hostel, JJ Facetimes Pope whilst Kiara’s showering, so she comes back to JJ grinning at his phone and Pope’s disembodied voice from the speaker.

“Turns out she’s not joking about this poetry shit,” JJ complains, “and she’s saying I have to wear _pants_.”

Kiara ignores him. “Pope, I hope you’re eating more than just cereal.”

JJ tilts the screen towards her, where Pope has paused with a spoon halfway towards his mouth. “I mean, I have three different variations of cereal. One’s basically granola.”

“Froot Loops are not a dietary staple,” she points at the camera. “Do you want to die young?”

Pope promises to eat an apple or a carrot, makes Kiara promise to film JJ’s reaction, then hangs up because he has class. JJ’s mood has improved and he jumps from the top bunk with a hum, then frowns at her.

“What are you all dressed up for?”

Kiara wouldn’t call a fake silk blouse and unripped shorts and sandals dressed up, but she does set a low bar the rest of the time. Her hair is down and over her shoulders.

She looks away as JJ strips off his shorts and his shirt, exchanging it for jeans and a slightly less battered plain grey one.

They’re late, which annoys Kiara. The first person is already on stage and everyone’s seated in fold up chairs around the quasi stage. Tables are stacked up at the side of the room to make space for the stage. JJ heads straight to the bar but Kiara stands and watches, enraptured. She’s only ever seen slam poetry on YouTube because no one in the Outer Banks had ever expressed an interest in anything beyond beer and ragers.

JJ returns with a beer and something clear. When she sips she almost spits it back out, because it’s gin and tonic and JJ is looking the other way, trying to suppress a smirk.

“Asshole,” she accuses, and then pushes him into a chair near the back because the current performer has finished. Everyone’s clicking instead of clapping and she hears JJ muttering _fuck sake_ under his breath.

The next performer is bright and engaging, the title being _All the Places You’ve Fucked Me Over_ , a prelude to a three-minute rant about heartbreak. JJ slumps in his seat and drinks his beer in quick sips, but Kiara thinks he’s vaguely listening.

He gets another round of drinks, muttering “I fucking need this, Kie,” when she looks at him reproachfully. She’s barely listening, because the next person’s stepped up to the mic and it’s the woman from the stall in the market. She’s wearing an abundance of silver jewellery and an oversized shirt with a pair of fringed boots. She’s effortlessly cool in a way Kiara can only hope to someday achieve, and her poem is all about rising sea temperatures and nature wanting to re-heal.

There’s a break in the acts, and the girl has jumped off the stage and sauntered to the bar. Kiara follows without thinking.

“Hi,” she says, before her nerves can fail her. The girl shoots a half smile her way dismissively, then looks, then turns and smiles.

“Oh, hi! Imperialism girl. I wondered if you’d make it.”

Kiara decides she likes a British accent on girls, the harsh o’s and t’s, the lower tone. “Hi. I loved your poem. You’re very eloquent.”

She’s had three gin and tonics now (fucking JJ. And they’re hitting like they were double measures because – fucking JJ) and she feels anything but eloquent. It doesn’t matter, because the girl’s smiling sharply and holding her hand out.

“I’m Emily.”

“Kiara. Or Kie. I respond to either.”

Luckily Emily’s smiling, not ducking away in second hand embarrassment. “So is your boyfriend here or….?”

“Oh, he’s not my boyfriend. He’s my best friend.” She thinks there’s something like relief in Emily’s eyes, a spark of intrigue.

“Oh, right,” the girl seems to be weighing something up. “Can I buy you a drink, then?”

Kiara grins brightly. “I’d love that.”

JJ’s outside smoking once all the poets have finished. He’s talking to some girl, his mouth very close to the girl’s ear, and the brunette is looking at him with one hand curled into the front of his shirt.

“JJ!” she calls from a distance, and it takes a moment for him to tear his eyes from his conquest to rest on her. “We’re going to some jazz bar – you coming?”

The brunette is watching his face, waiting for his reaction. He mumbles something to her and she smiles and nods.

“Sure,” he says, and pushes himself from the wall, grinding the cigarette under his heel. “Let’s go, amigos.”

The jazz bar has a brass band playing, loud and obnoxious and with bass so heavy Kiara can feel it in her breastbone. They play covers of pop songs, from Lizzo to Beyonce, and Kiara doesn’t think she could be more alive than this. Than jumping up and down in a London jazz club, a pretty girl clutching her hand.

She finds JJ in the smoking area, arm around the waist of the same brunette. “Me and Emily are going to split,” she tells him, and he’s looking at her curiously. “You gonna be okay?”

His eyes are dark and his lips look a little swollen, his hair in disarray. “Yeah. Use protection. Stay safe. And if in doubt, less is more. Whether it’s tongue or anything else.”

His laughter follows her as she flips him off and disappears back upstairs into the bar.

Riding the Tube the next day with yesterday’s clothes on feels like a rite of passage. Her phone died sometime after getting back to Emily’s flat share. Her housemates were all sat on couches, in varying states of sobriety, when they stumbled through the door.

Emily found out she was eighteen and had never actually done anything with a girl. Her gaze had softened and she’d called her _baby_ and stroked Kiara’s cheek.

They shared a cigarette in bed, limbs tangled.

They go for brunch the next day in a vegan place nearby. Emily says, “your friend. What’s he, a redneck cowboy?”

She’s borrowed Emily’s charger and her phone buzzes with messages when she turns it back on.

The flurry is triggered by a message from JJ. It’s a picture of her and Emily, Kiara’s mostly obscured by Emily’s hand on her cheek.

_Pogues (plus Sarah)_

**JJ [2:05]:** dreams do come true

**Sarah [2:10]:** Objection, sir

**JJ [2:23]:** I can still find this hot in a respectful way???

**JJ [2:25]:** I love women

**John B [2:54]:** Oh no buddy

Kiara is amused, shows the exchange to Emily. The girl frowns as she reads. “Seems kind of pervy, if you ask me.”

“He’s not like that,” she snatches her phone back, just in time for JJ to post a shirtless selfie, the top half of the brunette girl’s head in frame, resting on his bare shoulder. He’s got his thumb up for the camera.

**JJ [11:31]:** I love Britain

They part ways outside the café with a handshake and it’s weirdly formal and makes Kiara want to laugh but she doesn’t, just nods solemnly and even says _thank you_ as though it’s a business transaction.

JJ’s lying in his bunk, boots hanging over the end. He sits upright as she closes the door, and she can see a myriad of bruises disappearing underneath the shirt of his t-shirt.

“Part vampire, was she?” Kiara snarks at the same time JJ drawls, “well, now this is a surprise.”

“Surprise,” Kiara does jazz hands. “I’m pansexual.”

“You like kitchen wear?”

“No, dumbass. I’m attracted to people’s personalities, not what’s in their pants. Man, woman, anything else. Don’t care.”

“Can I watch?” she swats at his leg and he jerks his knee away. “Well, congratulations. Want to drink to celebrate?”

“Absolutely not. I’m wrecked. Cards and water?”

They end up slouched on couches in the communal area playing various leftover games that are stacked in the corner. Most are missing pieces, but they work around it.

Kiara wins three times at Go Fish before JJ declares defeat and slopes off for a shower.

_Pogues (plus Sarah)_

**Kie [5:47]:** Surprise bitch, I’m pansexual

**Sarah [5:49]:** who’s surprised?

**John B [5:50]:** ME! I’m VERY SURPRISED

**JJ [5:51]:** oh the possibilities

**Pope [5:51]:** Congratulations Kie!!!

**Pope [5:52]:** Hit JJ when he’s being gross. Straight in the throat.

**Pope [5:52]:** Or balls.

**Pope [5:52]:** Or both. Whatever’s closest.

**JJ [5:53]:** more like whatever’s CLOSET

**John B [5:54]:** She’s out of it now, dude

**Pope [5:55]:** ….is this a good time to say I’m bi?

**Kie [5:55]:** HOLY SHIT POPE

**John B [5:55]:** Since when????

**Sarah [5:55]:** WELCOME TO THE DARK SIDE

**Sarah [5:55]:** We have pretty boys AND girls

**John B [5:55]:** AM I THE ONLY STRAIGHT WHAT IS GOING ON

**JJ [5:56]:** still here

**Kie [5:56]:** JJ pls shower I’m hungry

**John B [5:57]:** Did I turn everyone in this group? If so, I can only apologise

**Pope [5:58]:** JJ’s prettier

**John B [5:59]:** I resent that accusation

**Pope [6:00]:** The truth hurts.

**Sarah [6:01]:** i agree with pope. he has mystery. and nice eyes

**John B [6:02]:** sArAH

JJ posts a topless selfie, bicep flexed mockingly.

**Pope [6:08]:** I rest my case.

**John B [6:07]:** Ok maybe you have a point

**Kie [6:08]:** JJ. SHOWER.

**John B [6:10]:** Wait are those hickeys? Kinky

They go to an Indian restaurant for tea and JJ orders a curry rated at being three out of four chillies on their scale. Then makes Kiara ask for yogurt to temper the spice, so he doesn’t lose face.

“Male fragility,” she tuts, then smiles as the server reappears with a metal dish of yogurt. JJ stirs it in gratefully.

They have their last day in London three days later, once they conclude they’ve exhausted the city. They go on a tour of the Tower of London and the Vaults. There’s jump scares carried out by actors, and Kiara has to keep a tight hold of JJ’s hand so he doesn’t right hook an unsuspecting individual out of reflex.

JJ persuades her to go out clubbing on their last night. The persuasion is a little thin on the ground. He looks at her, tilts his head and says, “wanna get blind drunk and go clubbing?” and she thinks for a few seconds before saying yes.

Two girls in their dorm overhear, so Kiara invites them along. They’re British, from Ireland, called Aoife and Sophie. Aoife has to spell her name out three times, and even then JJ looks at her blankly.

“The letters don’t make sense,” he tells her. Then, “I’m JJ, that’s much simpler.”

He ducks out the way as Kiara jabs him in the shoulder. Sophie pulls a bottle of vodka and lemonade from her locker, and they play a vague semblance of drinking games in the common area.

Kiara thinks she sees Aoife looking at JJ in the way girls do when they want to be looked out. She touches his shoulder, his upper arm. The pair run back to the dormitory to get their shoes when they decide it’s time to head out.

“Aoife likes you,” Kiara nudges his knee with her toe.

JJ shrugs. “It’s our night.”

It makes her grin, makes her tuck herself to his side. He’s bemused by the affection but throws his arm around her anyway, and she’s grateful for his warmth in the cool London air.

They lose Sophie and Aoife as soon as they’ve been carded and walked up the steep concrete steps of the club. The music is loud and the air hot, so Kiara twists her hair onto her head and takes JJ’s wrist so she doesn’t lose him in the crowd.

They slam back tequila chased by lime segments at the bar.

They dance, just like they do at the Boneyard. JJ at her back or twisting her around, shoulders moving, hips swaying. Kiara knows she’s a good dancer – JJ’s the only one who’s ever tried to seriously keep up. John B’s all limbs, and Pope would be good if he wasn’t so self-conscious and stilted.

Two hours later her feet hurt and JJ’s hungry so they leave. Decide to walk back to the hostel.

“We should get a tattoo,” JJ proposes. “Matching ones. Full Kook.”

Kiara digs a finger into his rib, then falls against his side. Drunk JJ is way more tactile. Drunk Kiara doesn’t mind it.

They’re still debating what they’d get (JJ’s lobbying for a wave, Kiara for a dolphin) when they walk past a side street and a girl screams. The sound barely registers with Kiara but JJ’s moving, spine snapping straight.

“JJ,” she protests as he marches towards the scream. He doesn’t falter, so she follows.

There are two figures in the shadow; what looks like a girl with her back flat against the brickwork of the nearby building. She’s sobbing quietly, saying “no, no, no,” and the man who has her pinned there, one hand around her throat, is raising his arm, hand clenched.

It never lands, because JJ’s fist slams into his jaw. JJ’s face has the terrible, awful blankness he gets whenever he fights.

Kiara cries, “JJ!” at the same as the girl cries “Paul!”

Paul’s released the girl, who slides down the wall bonelessly and sits slumped, sobbing. She has a red mark on the side of her face, and something which looks like it may blossom into a bruise around her neck. Kiara crouches quickly next to her.

“Hi, you okay?”

There’s the sound of shoes skidding on tarmac, and a loud grunt. Kiara turns to see JJ landing another punch, right on Paul’s nose. Paul swings backwards but doesn’t fall. JJ doesn’t fight clean; he takes advantage, sweeping the man’s legs from underneath him, landing another hit as Paul falls to the ground.

JJ lands a kick in the man’s stomach and he curls, the breath rushing from him. Kiara leaves the girl and scrambles to snatch at JJ’s arm.

“JJ,” she growls and shoves at him, to push him off balance. “That’s enough.” He looks at her hollowly and he clearly doesn’t agree with her assessment. “JJ. Please. We’ve got to get her to hospital.” She gestures towards the girl, who’s still on the floor and sobbing _Paul_ brokenly.

JJ shrugs and steps backwards. Says, “don’t fucking hit people smaller than you, asswipe,” to the man, and then leaves him on the floor.

Kiara wraps her arm around the girl’s shoulders and levers her from the ground. Paul’s slowly pulling himself to his feet, hand cupped around his nose. JJ watches with a cigarette between his teeth as he staggers from the side street.

They take an Uber to get the girl to the closest emergency room and leave her with a kindly nurse. The nurse takes one look at JJ’s split knuckles, another at the sobbing girl, and tells them in a low voice to make themselves scarce. “I’ll make sure I contact her family,” the nurse promises.

JJ stands outside the sliding doors and smokes two cigarettes back to back. Kiara reaches for him, to examine his knuckles, to give some reassurance, but he moves away from her, eyes dark.

She orders an Uber but he doesn’t get in. Doesn’t look at her, his jaw tight. She thinks she understands.

“Our train’s at ten tomorrow,” she tells him, and he looks over her head. “You’ll have to be back around eight to pack.”

He nods. She leaves him standing on the sidewalk outside the emergency room, smoke leaking from his mouth.

She sits on the toilet seat in the hostel and calls John B. He picks up on the third call.

“Kie?” his voice is scratchy, as though she’s woken him up. “What’s up?”

“JJ got in a fight,” her voice is small, even to her ears. “God – he was going for it – the guy wasn’t even fighting back.”

His voice is clearer. “Is he okay? Are you with him?”

“JJ’s fine – just his knuckles. The guy had his girlfriend against the wall by her throat. God, John B. I had to pull him off.”

A sigh trickles it’s way down the line. “It’s okay, Kie. It’s – well, classic JJ. This has probably been his longest non-violent streak.” Silence reigns. “Are _you_ okay?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine. JJ’s not here. He’s somewhere. Walking, I think.”

“He’ll come back when he’s cooled off. He just needs to sort his head out sometimes. It’s not – it’s not his fault, Kie,” it sounds like a plea. “Luke’s been – well. He won’t even tell me how long for but it’s been years and not exactly irregular.”

Kiara thinks of the blank look JJ wore easily, the one that was so at odds with his usual animation. “I know. It’s just been a while, y’know?” They’ve avoided the Kooks for a whole year. Or maybe the Kooks were avoiding them. Without Rafe, and with Sarah defecting, everything had lost its purpose. She hangs up quickly and leans her head against the side of the cubicle, taking deep breaths.

After brushing her teeth she changes, gets into her bunk and closes her eyes but doesn’t sleep. Sophie and Aoife come back a while later, giggling and tripping over. Kiara pretends to be asleep, and the girls fall into their bunks and turn the light off.

She finally falls asleep properly, but she thinks a few hours later the ladder creaks and the bed shifts and the boy above her exhales softly, raggedly.

Aside from his knuckles, which are grazed but scabbed, there doesn’t seem to be anything amiss about JJ in the morning. He’s still asleep, mouth slightly open, back to the room. Kiara leaves him to sleep and packs everything as far as she can, pushing all the items they’ve pulled from their rucksacks back into their rightful place. Goes and gets breakfast and sandwiches for lunch from the corner shop.

When the door bangs shut JJ stirs, peering blearily into the room. Kiara passes him her Chilly’s bottle and he grunts gratefully. Sophie and Aoife and some undetermined other couple are still asleep, so she ushers him quietly. He doesn’t look at her straight as he changes, as they pack up the final things and straighten the sheets on the bed. As she checks out, pays for their extended stay.

A train rushes past them as they stand on the Tube platform. JJ rubs at his jaw and Kiara notices he has some light stubble which scratches against his palm.

They’re departing from Paddington station, which looks like a huge greenhouse when they get there. The Tube station is under it, so it’s just an escalator’s ride up until they’re in the main station. The trains all get announced on tiny, digital screens, but the words move quickly and they only have the final destination. She finally finds the one to Newquay, and the platform.

They’ve bought e-tickets and they refuse to scan on the gates even when they turn the brightness all the way up. They have to be let trough by a flustered rail employee who’s been shouted at by a short very angry woman, and there’s not enough time to thank her properly as they whirl through the gate and to the right platform.

Kiara’s shrugging her backpack off to stow it in the designated luggage racks at the end of the carriage and people are building up behind her, tutting in annoyance. Someone shoulders past and JJ’s tense in the middle, shoulders tight.

“Go get a seat,” he’s got her bag in one hand, has dropped his to the floor, and is pushing aside already loaded luggage to make space.

Kiara doesn’t argue, sets off down the aisle and finds two seats together. Puts her purse on it and tells everyone who tries to steal it that it’s taken. JJ eventually saunters down the aisle and drops into the seat. His hand grips the chair in front, the hand with the split knuckles.

She wants to touch them, but he says, “don’t,” in a tight voice.

Kiara takes a breath. Says, “you can’t just go round punching people – we’re not in the Cut now,” in a low tone, so only he can hear. The seats are way smaller than American ones, so their legs are pressed together, hip to knee.

“He had her by the _throat-_ ”

He sounds wrecked and she’s seen bruises on his throat before. Should have realised that they were always bigger than some kids handspan, fingerprints twice the size of those of even the tallest in the class.

“You did the right thing,” he looks at her for the first time since he’d been in the alleyway, kicking a man named Paul in the ribs. She thinks relief softens his features but she doesn’t look at him because she’s not sure she can take it. “Just next time – stop before it goes too far.”

“You can be my moral compass.”

“I’m not always going to be there – make your own. Stop stealing mine.”

His face has softened into a smile. “But yours is always so _right_.”

There’s silence as Kiara distributes the breakfast she’s picked up – chocolate croissants from the in-store bakery, and bottles of chocolate milk. She’s opted for a banana for fear of turning into some pastry-based product.

“She won’t leave him, will she?”

Kiara can look at him now because he’s turned away. Has pulled apart his croissant for something to do with his hands.

“No,” the word sticks in her throat. “Probably not.”

“Okay.” He chews on the croissant almost thoughtfully. Then, offhandedly, “my London playlist song is _Pussy is God_ by Kings Princess.”

Kiara gasps in outrage, slaps his thigh. “How dare you use my sexual awakening to further your agenda! Outrageous.” She thinks rapidly to retaliate. “Fine, mine’s _The Boxer_ by Simon and Garfunkel.”

He hasn’t heard her choice, and she’s never head of his. They share the headphones, an earbud each, and she is reluctant to admit that his song is actually quite good, despite the inflammatory title.

He recognises the melody of _The Boxer,_ taps his foot on the floor. “Pope would love this shit,” he decides, and she adds them both to the playlist.

“You definitely Googled your choice,” she accuses, but quietly, because he’s close.

JJ looks at her from the corner of his eye. “If I were to do such a thing, it would definitely be on Incognito mode so you’d never be able to prove it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this chapter ran away with me. they were definitely supposed to be in the next place by now but OH WELL that's the quarantine writing life


	4. newquay - paris - amsterdam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone asked about a playlist, so [here's](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4sj7gX14YTjux0PDlLrIWe) their playlist! i will add them as they're mentioned.

*

The Outer Banks looks as though it has been spat from the sea. The Cornish coast looks as though the sea is trying to reclaim it.

There are headlands and cliffs surrounding every beach. The hostel they’re staying in is more someone’s home with spare rooms, the guy who greets them is some twenty something beach dude called Jack. He wears sliders and has sun-bleached brown hair which reminds Kiara for a moment of John B.

They’re no longer out of place. The uniform of board shorts, sharks tooth necklaces and scraps of thread around wrists and ankles is blatantly universal for surfer-bros. The surf is less universal here – apparently the locals have to hop from beach to beach, scrawling through extremely niche Twitter accounts to try and scout out the best surf that day.

Jack offers them a ride to the beach once his shift is over. His board is strapped to the roof of his car and the windows are all down, and Jack smokes two cigarettes on the way. There’s a small hut on the sand which rents surfboard, kayaks and wetsuits. They hire two surfboards for three days, but decline the wetsuits.

The first time they run into the water, JJ yells. Kiara finds out why as she jogs in behind him. The water isn’t just cool, it’s freezing. Most other surfers are wearing wetsuits and now she definitely knows why.

“Fuck, I think my balls have disappeared,” JJ calls, but he’s grinning and has jumped onto his board, arms scooping water. “This better be fucking worth not being able to have kids.”

Kiara follows because she isn’t a quitter, glad to be out of the cold water as she pulls herself onto her board. It’s with dread that she has to duck through a cresting wave in order to reach the right break point. She resurfaces, spluttering, her teeth chattering.

“Fuck,” she says, and JJ’s never far away, looks across with a grin. “Why is it so fucking cold? Isn’t this the same sea?”

“Language, Kie,” JJ chides, and he’s paddled closer. “There are kids around.”

Not two minutes later JJ’s yelling, “Jesus fucking Christ!” and standing on his board despite there being no wave propelling him. There’s a band of dark seaweed wrapped around his ankle, and Kiara can see his breath of relief as he pulls it off and throws it towards her.

Finally, once she’s swum around a bit and warmed up sufficiently, Kiara tries to catch a wave. She misses the first, twisting off the rolling water with a frown. JJ doesn’t, because all he has to do is be in the sea and waves practically fight amongst themselves to carry him to shore as though he’s Poseidon. A few locals turn to watch him critically, brows furrowed. The fin of his board jams into the sand and he jumps off, then jogs back out to sea until he’s waist deep and can paddle.

He looks good, she thinks idly. His hair is wet and plastered to his head. But he’s beaming like a kid in a sweet shop, and his arms flex as he paddles. As he pulls himself into sitting next to her, bobbing in the sea. Trickles of water make their way down his shoulders, and he shakes his hair out.

“You gonna actually do anything, or you just enjoying the view?” he asks, and it’s nothing out of the ordinary, for him to make a joke or insinuate something. Kiara rolls her eyes, pulls herself onto her stomach and starts paddling.

“Your eyes match the sea,” she calls over her shoulder, just as she gets caught by a building wave and carried away.

The waves have less power here, are more likely to build and then peter away without ever amounting to anything. The sun is obscured behind cloud and there’s a gentle breeze, but she doesn’t get cold if she keeps moving.

Kiara gives up first, riding her final wave all the way up the beach, until her board wedges into the sand and she jumps off, tucking the board under her arm and wading the final few steps. JJ’s watching, mockingly salutes as she raises a hand in acknowledgement.

“Your boy’s good,” it’s Jack, and he’s sitting in the sand with his wetsuit unzipped and rolled down to his waist. His board’s propped beside him, which Kiara takes as an invitation. She sits a meter away, the sand instantly sticking to her legs.

“You didn’t have to wait,” she says. There’s the familiar metallic flicker of a lighter, then he offers her the packet of cigarettes. A joint would be preferable, but she takes one anyway. The paper sticks to her damp fingers.

“It’s a long walk back, and I’ve got your stuff in the car,” he blows out rings of smoke. “Besides, I like the sea.”

Kiara watches JJ in the water, his face more concentrated now she’s not there to distract him. The sea is busier than home, so he’s constantly having to twist out of someone’s way, or bail earlier than intended. Sometimes Kiara thinks he likes throwing himself off his board backwards.

He skims along another wave, easily, switching direction when someone comes the opposite way. There are rocks in the water, far more than the Outer Banks, but there’s black and white flags they’re supposed to keep between, and lifeguards who sit in a white jeep on the sand in red and yellow clothing.

“Does he compete?” Jack asks.

“Sometimes. There are a few competitions, back home, but they’re expensive to enter.”

“And where’s home, exactly?”

“Outer Banks,” she’s becoming used to the blank look people give her. “North Carolina, East Coast.”

The breeze is picking up and the sun is slowly sinking in the sky, still hidden behind clouds. The lifeguards have moved from where they’ve been lying on the roof of the Jeep, are driving to collect the flags. The tide is slowly creeping up the shore.

“Does he ever get tired?”

“Nah, he’s like a golden retriever and the sea is his tennis ball. I could leave him here all day.”

It’s cold, just in a bikini.

“JJ!” he looks over from where he’s about to paddle back out to sea. Would probably keep going for hours if it was his choice. She’s walked out so she’s calf deep, the waves lapping against her skin. “Let’s go!”

“One more!” he calls back, and he’s got one hand on his board, floating it next to him.

“I’m cold!”

His shoulders rise and fall in a sigh, but he makes his way back to shore. She waits in the shallows for him, eyes closed, the sand shifting beneath her feet when she moves her toes.

There’s splashing as he gets closer, running now, and then he’s kicking the water and splashing her from head to toe.

“Fuck, JJ!” her eyes snap open and he’s grinning, retreating past her, board under arm. “I was dry!”

“That’s what she said. Or not, actually,” he shoots over his shoulder. He’s dripping water everywhere, and Jack’s on the beach watching them, watching him. As Kiara wades from the shallows, runs at JJ to push at his shoulders. He ducks to one side, but her hands make contact anyway.

“God, you’re freezing,” he says, and he’s reaching for her hand to confirm the fact.

“I did say,” he’s dropped her hand almost as soon as he’s confirmed that she has little blood left in her extremities, so she pushes her cold fingers into his neck.

Her fingers are uncooperative and refuse to bend around the side of her board, so JJ tucks it under his other arm. It’s a longer walk than they’re used to from the beach to the parking lot, across thick, shifting sand, up some driftwood steps. The pathway turns flinty and it digs sharply into the soles of her feet.

“Dude, you should come to the Outer Banks. We’ll show you real surf.”

“Australia’s where it’s at,” Jack protests, as JJ accepts a cigarette and the pair pause to light it. “Did a season lifeguarding there a few years back. Un-fucking-believable.”

Post surf JJ is one of her favourites. Buzzing with dopamine rush, limbs no longer moving with unburnt energy. He has a rash on his chest and upper arms from the sea water and his board, is looking back at her, blowing out smoke.

JJ helps Jack strap their rented boards to the roof racks, and then they’re thrown two towels. Kiara pulls on her clothes despite being damp, is grateful for her foresight in packing a hoodie.

Jack’s checking his phone, typing a message.

“Some guys are having drinks at my mates house, but I’ll just drop you off on the way past,” he stops, considers. “Or you can join, if you want.”

JJ looks to Kiara and she can almost tell what he’s thinking. They’re tired from travelling, but JJ’s eyes are sparking, and it’s his vacation.

“Okay,” she says, “that sounds good. Thank you.”

They drive for twenty minutes before they finally get to the house. Her dad’s probably warned her about this exact scenario, so she texts Pope the address of their hostel and Jack’s name, just in case. He responds with a line of question marks.

There’s a number of cars on the driveway, boards on the rooves of most. JJ’s smoking another cigarette as he climbs out, his board shorts dry. He’s pulled on a tank and pushed sunglasses onto his nose, holds his phone loosely in one hand and the cigarettes in another. Jack’s drawn him into some story about beaches and sharks.

Kiara watches the exchange, at JJ’s relaxed shoulders. He’s different, less angular, not looking as though he’s marching to the lion’s den. She supposes they have no rivalries here, nothing to put them on guard from the offset.

He waits for her at the front of the car, slings a warm arm around her shoulders, rubs his knuckles into her skull. She pulls away, punches him in the arm.

The house is a cottage, pebble dashed and once-white. JJ has to duck through the doorway into the kitchen. There are low beams and people everywhere. A girl kisses Jack briefly, passes him a beer. Looks around him.

“Who have you dragged with you this time, Jack?” her tone switches between exasperation and fondness. Jack introduces them with a jerk of his thumb.

“JJ’s the best surfer I’ve seen for a while,” he finishes, and he’s uncapping two more beers and handing them over.

The compliment makes JJ pause, but he’s accepting the beer and taking a sip. “There’s fuck all else to do at home,” he explains, but his voice is rough around the edges and Kiara can tell he’s flattered.

“Better than Dean?” someone asks, and Jack flicks at the guy’s ear.

“Way better.”

Jack’s girlfriend draws Kiara into a conversation by complimenting her necklaces. An old collie appears from somewhere and licks at her knees, so Kiara fusses her. JJ is enticed into a game called rounders, which from what she can gather is mostly softball but without the gloves. He’s briefly explained the rules and when it’s his turn he sends the ball spinning across the field with a crack of the bat.

Jack takes two turns at batting and then collapses into a deck chair next to his girlfriend, stealing a sip of her beer. “God, does he ever stop?”

The teams are taking shots of rum every time they bat, or every time a ball is caught. It’s a lot of rum.

Kiara watches JJ as he runs around the pitch, marked out by hoodies on the floor for each base. “Not really.”

He does eventually – he flops to the floor at her feet, panting lightly. He smells of salt and smoke and also of sweat, the sea having washed off his deodorant. It’s so familiar that she wants to lean into it, bury her face at the base of his neck and breath him in.

He leans against her knee with one arm. Takes gulps of the beer, then inspects the label. It’s a brand called Doom Bar, which apparently prides itself on being Cornish.

“They’ve got a fucked-up accent,” he comments, but quietly, showing some rare tact. The Cornish accent drops their H’s and roll their R’s and speak in colloquialisms that she can only understand from their context.

“I can never understand what they mean when they say _alright._ Are they asking? Is it hey, you okay? What do you say back?”

“One of them said an American accent makes you sound stupid, even if you’re not.”

“They’re not far wrong,” she jostles him with her knee.

JJ licks his lips, looks away. Takes a sip from the bottle. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

It hangs in the air, vulnerable and raw, and she knows it’s only because he’s tired and drunk that it’s slipped out. He flinches away as she puts a hand on his neck, where his hair gives way to tanned skin. She’s seen John B and Pope petting at his hair, has seen him pulling his fingers through John B’s mess. He relaxes eventually, and she tugs gently at the blonde strands, curls her fingers around the neck of his tank top.

“I don’t think you’re stupid.” She thinks he smiles. “JJ, you’re not stupid.” It’s important to her, in that moment. John B has told her in quiet words, half sentences. Of the things his dad has done, has said. “You’re better at reading maps than me, you remember everything with weird accuracy, you’re good at literally any sport you try. You make the quickest jokes. You’re literally always thinking about something.”

“Okay,” he tips his chin into her knee, light stubble rough against her skin. “No need to get emotional, dear.” He pauses, for a beat. “I heard I have good eyes, as well. Colour of the sea, apparently.”

He doesn’t turn his head for a long time, and she keeps her hand there, curled into his hair and the collar of his shirt.

Jack drives them back to the guesthouse when it becomes too cold to sit outside (which is a lot earlier in Britain than Outer Banks). The sheets on the bed are soft and she definitely should shower the salt out of her hair. Instead she just brushes the sand from her feet, changes into a t-shirt and shorts whilst JJ’s in the bathroom, and crawls between the covers.

JJ’s muttering, “yeah, yeah, yeah, love you too,” into his phone when he reappears, toothbrush in hand. He mouths _John B_ from the doorway, kicks the door shut behind him. Clicks him onto speaker.

“-and there was a guy who could juggle knives. _Knives_ , JJ.”

“He’s been to his first frat party,” JJ explains, pulling off his shirt. Kiara doesn’t not look at him, but she doesn’t over focus on him either. Strikes the perfect balance between the two.

“Hey John B.”

“Kie! How’s my favourite female Pogue?”

“Am I ranking above Sarah?”

“No – oh, shit.”

“Or is she not a Pogue?”

“Well technically, probably not. Fuck, don’t tell her that.”

“You all good?”

“Yeah,” he drawls, and he’s definitely drunk, or high, or both. “I’m _great_. Just checking up on my bud after his encounter with death yesterday.”

JJ’s reclining on the other bed now, the phone on the bedside table between them. He looks over at the mention and Kiara can’t read his expression. “He’s basically just sung _These Words_ by Natasha Bedingfield at me for a solid five minutes. But only the chorus, because he doesn’t know the rest.”

John B scoffs. “That’s a fucking lie, Maybank. But fine. Goodbye. I’ll take this talent elsewhere – maybe Pope will appreciate it.”

“Bye!” Kiara and JJ chorus, and then John B hangs up.

Kiara likes to think she doesn’t fall asleep immediately, but she definitely does.

The door slamming against the wall jerks her awake. It’s still half dark, and she thinks she can hear rain pattering against the window. JJ’s bolt upright in the other bed, tense as he appraises the situation.

Jack’s backlit by the light in the hallway. “Surf’s good over at Gwithian. You coming?”

JJ’s already out of bed, rooting in his backpack for a pair of board shorts. Kiara closes her eyes, puts her head back on the pillow.

Jack leaves them to get changed. JJ pulls the covers off the bed, making her shriek. He flicks her forehead.

“Rise and shine, sleeping beauty. Although I’ll have you know you were snoring up a storm.”

He looks delighted at the idea, but Kiara doesn’t have the energy to argue back. A bikini top lands on her face from where JJ’s pulled it off the heater.

“I wore this one yesterday,” she protests in a sleep roughened mumble.

“The sea’s fucking sterile. Now get up, bitch.”

If she slumps against JJ’s shoulder in the car, that’s his own fault. Jack drives far too quickly for the narrow stone wall lined lanes, headlights on and wipers set to maximum, swiping away rain drops. They both smell the same as yesterday and she thinks she may have even pulled on JJ’s shirt in the gloom.

It takes half an hour of navigating the inhumanely twisted roads. The car’s gears grind and Jack cracks his window open to blow smoke out.

The carpark is on the headland and full of vans and battered cars with boards on the roof. Kiara looks morosely out at the weather, at the wind and the rain. JJ’s already shrugged her off now they’ve arrived, slid out the car. The trunk opens and Jack shouts, “I’ve got you wetsuits!” so she persuades her limbs to unfurl, strips off her dry clothes, and steps outside.

JJ’s already half wrestled himself into his borrowed wetsuit. He’s laughing at something Jack’s said, has thrown a look over his shoulder to the sea and the waves. He throws over her wetsuit, which smells of neoprene and salt.

“It might be a bit tight, it’s my little sisters,” Jack says almost apologetically. JJ helps him retrieve the boards from the roof rack, as Kiara pulls the wetsuit on. It is tight – she has to hop around on one leg to get the other one in. Can only pull it as far as mid thigh, and then scowls at the black fabric. She can’t move without tripping. The wind is cold and she’s tired and grouchy. And it’s still raining.

“C’mere,” JJ’s hands are warm as he comes up behind her, grasps the edges of the wetsuit and pulls.

“It’s never going to fit,” she tells him, and then her feet leave the ground and he’s shaking her. Slowly, painfully, the wetsuit inches up her rain speckled skin.

“Arms,” he commands, and she puts her hands obediently in the arm holes and lets him grapple her into them as well. It takes three attempts to get the zip done up (he guards her skin with the pad of his finger, to prevent it pinching) and when it’s all finished, she can’t bend her arms and legs. She’s not sure she has any circulation to her hands and feet.

JJ takes a picture of her, arms stuck out by her sides.

“Looking real hot, Kie. Seriously. Like a sexy, immobile starfish.”

“It’ll loosen off in the water,” even Jack sounds doubtful. She drops her board when she’s passed it (due to the whole unable to bend limbs thing) so JJ carries it, and the three traipse down the steps to the beach.

The sand is empty apart from one determined dog walker, and the lifeguards sat inside their jeep. The water is less densely populated than yesterday – all fair-weather surfers put off by the weather. The waves are a different standard to yesterday; white, foamy, crashing to the shore.

“This is more fucking like it,” JJ enthuses, and she thinks he’s hung back purposefully. Jack’s splashing into the surf, someone calling out his name.

The wetsuit does loosen off once the first flood of water enters, but it’s even colder than yesterday.

“I hate you,” she tells him, and he looks over and grins.

“You’ll love me in a minute, once you catch your first,” his tone is knowing and Kiara is tempted to push him under the water.

Instead she makes sure her hair is secure in the tie, sighs loudly, and dives after him.

She gets wiped out twice, salt water filling her nose and her mouth, burning her throat. Comes up spluttering, hooking her arms over her board and pulling herself clear. It’s the choppy, frantic storm-induced sort of swell. JJ’s disappearing into tunnels of waves, pulling himself upright with an ease that defies gravity.

Kiara watches as Jack’s girlfriend gets pulled under by a wave, keeps watching until she bobs back up, pushing her hair out of her eyes. The rain is still lashing down. One of the lifeguards has even dragged a board out to join them, one remaining watchful on the beach.

“Fuck this,” the girlfriend says, and Kiara’s inclined to agree. They’ve been out for over an hour and she’s exhausted. Has mostly resorted to bobbing idly on her board, ducking through waves. “Let’s go have some tea.”

Her name’s Hannah, and she laughs at Kiara’s wetsuit when she walks stiff-legged from the sea.

“God, did he give you Julia’s old one? Dumb fuck,” but it’s fond.

Hannah has a camper which smells like salt, sand ingrained into the carpet. Jack’s left the keys to his car under the wheel arch, so Kiara retrieves her dry clothes and towel, then runs to the camper.

“Sorry,” she says, as she drips water everywhere. Hannah just throws some towels down, looks away as Kiara changes. She’s also stolen JJ’s hoodie (which she thinks is one of John B’s cast offs, anyway) and is grateful for the warmth.

Hannah’s parked the van so they can look out the window and keep an eye on the sea. Distantly Kiara can see JJ’s sea-darkened hair, as he pulls himself to standing for the hundredth time.

“Jack was right, he is good,” Hannah says almost admiringly, and something a lot like pride unfurls in Kiara’s chest. The tea is milky and warm, in a chipped mug with no handle. They chat idly, but then her eyes are closing and she’s curled up in the seat. She thinks Hannah takes the empty mug from her hands.

“God, I swear she can sleep anywhere,” JJ says loudly, the door of the van sliding open. “Kie. You’ve stolen my hoodie.”

“John B’s, actually,” she grumbles into the neckline of said hoodie. “Besides, finders, keepers.”

It’s cramped with all four of them in the back of the van. There are three seats, but Hannah sits on Jack’s knee. They drink tea and the windows steam as their hair dries. Kiara leans her head onto JJ’s salt tacky shoulder and he tugs gently at some errant curls, dissecting the surf with Jack animatedly.

When they eventually decamp back to Jack’s car, JJ says, “you look good in my hoodie,” but in an offhand, casual way.

She pushes at his shoulder. “It’s John B’s, asshole.”

_The Pogues (and Sarah)_

**JJ [3:56]:** next up on where will kie sleep next

 **JJ [3:56]:** is a strangers van!!

JJ posts a picture of her in Hannah’s van, slumped against the window. Her mouth is open and her hair is over her face.

 **Pope [3:58]:** I hope that’s not a literal strangers van.

 **Pope [3:59]:** Do we need to have a refresher course on Stranger Danger?

 **Pope [4:06]:** JJ?

 **Pope [4:23]:** Hope you’re not dead.

 **John B [5:01]:** OMG that’s my favourite hoodie!!

 **JJ [5:14]:** not me. kie stole it

 **Sarah [5:16]:** oh yeah, and the pope’s catholic

 **Pope [5:20]:** …am I?

They go mackerel fishing the next day, and JJ complains because they have to pay for the liberty.

“We’re Touron’s now,” Kiara points out, and he pouts at the assertion, but doesn’t argue against it.

The boat owner says they haven’t caught any mackerel for weeks, but maybe the rain’s stirred something up. It has, because fifteen minutes in they land in the middle of an entire school and the fish are practically jumping into the boat. JJ’s quick and efficient at unhooking them from the lines, feet square as he reels them in.

“You’ve done this before,” the fisherman accuses, and JJ smirks a little.

Someone from the other side of the boat says, “oh, dolphins!” and that’s all it takes for Kiara to abandon her line and run to look.

JJ joins her to watch as she sleek creatures swim in the water, surfacing occasionally. “John B told me you have a dolphin tattoo.”

“Have you ever seen one?”

“Nah, but it could be hidden.”

“What, when I’m wearing a bikini?” she doesn’t want to look away from the dolphins, gasps as one makes a leap. Sure, she’s seen them before, but they’re no less awesome.

“It could be over a nipple or something,” JJ muses, “all artistic, like.”

“For the record, I don’t have a dolphin tattoo over my nipple. That would be a super weird place to have one.”

He’s sliding a grin her way, sighing theatrically. “Shame.”

They stop fishing then, not wanting to disrupt the dolphins. It’s breezy and cold, but the boat bobs gently in the water in a familiar way, and the dolphins stay around for twenty minutes, so all in all it’s pretty sweet.

The tiny fishing towns arranged around harbours are a far cry from Outer Banks. They’re full of high-class surf shops, ice cream parlours and tiny seafood restaurants. They order fish and chips and eat them whilst sitting on the harbour, legs over the side of the stone walls.

“We should try France next,” she proposes, and JJ nods, so she books train tickets from Newquay to London, then to Paris on the Euro Star.

JJ wanders off and then back with two ice cream cones, one mint choc chip and one some weird orange flavour. Hands her the mint cone.

“How does it take five hours from Cornwall to London, but two and quarter to go under the fucking sea to Paris?” she complains. “Rail travel is the most environmentally conscious way to travel but who blames people for going by plane if it’s quicker _and_ cheaper? Fucking capitalism.”

Hannah drops them at the train station the next morning.

“Have fun with your travels,” she tells them, and she pulls them into a hug each. JJ pats at her shoulder vaguely. “Make the most of it!”

Jack’s added them both on Instagram. JJ posts weird shit on his, such as trying to perfect a backflip, or a close up of a seagull sitting on the window ledge of the guest house.

_The Pogues (and Sarah)_

**JJ [3:11]:** today on how can she sleep like that

 **JJ [3:11]:** mr maybanks shoulder on a crowded train

 **JJ [3:12]:** for 3 HOURS

JJ’s squinting at the camera. Kiara’s slumped on his shoulder.

 **Sarah [3:13]:** now that’s some cute shit

 **Pope [3:14]:** JJ, I’ve been looking for that hat for weeks.

He chooses _Good Vibrations_ by The Beach Boys for the playlist, and she chooses _Saturn_ by Sleeping at last. JJ accuses her choice of being depressing as fuck but he listens to it all anyway.

Kiara makes him listen to the Les Misérables soundtrack for the rest of the Eurostar journey.

Paris is big and dirty and not what she imagined at all. French people are aloof and kind of rude, which JJ respects.

Out of the pair of them, Kiara definitely did not expect JJ to be the best at breaching cultural divides and interacting with non-English speakers.

He arms himself with a few key phrases and marches into interactions. His opening line is “désolé, je suis Américain,” in the worst French accent Kiara has ever heard. But it makes them soften towards him, switch to English if they know any. If not, he muddles through with hand gestures and disarming smiles.

Kiara struggles. Feels inadequate for not knowing any of the language, taken aback by her own audacity at travelling somewhere without knowing how to communicate.

“If someone comes to the US and doesn’t know English, they’re ripped apart,” she points out, as JJ successfully navigates yet another encounter and emerges with two coffees and freshly baked croissants. Before France, she thought she knew croissants. She was wrong.

“Well, I’m never going to criticise the French again,” he licks grease from his fingers, tips the remaining crumbs from the paper bag into his mouth. “The French know how to fucking bake. Although, I am excluding French-Canadians, ‘cause they’re assholes and not real French.”

She drags him on a Macaron making and champagne tasting course. A bus comes and picks them up from the train station, and they’re offered strawberries and champagne in a plastic flute on the drive over.

“This is the life,” JJ enthuses, around a whole strawberry.

The champagne tasting is actually quite boring, apart from the tasting part. They get a tour of the vineyard and a detailed explanation of the fact that anything grown outside of the Champagne region is in fact prosecco. There are metal buckets supplied to spit the wine out once you’ve tasted it, but JJ casts dark looks at anyone who actually uses them.

They’re surrounded by middle aged couples, and a couple who are definitely on their honeymoon. They exchange horrified looks as JJ buys a bottle of champagne from the outside bar, shakes it vigorously, then uncorks it, spraying it all over Kiara, before glugging straight from the neck. Kiara shrieks and scrambles away, then snatches the bottle from his hand and tips some into her mouth.

They’re still the centre of attention and she doesn’t think JJ did that on purpose. Probably just always wanted to spray champagne. She sees him picking up the cork, putting it in his pocket.

The make macarons after the champagne tasting which is definitely the wrong way round. Or maybe the right way round, because they have to buy more champagne to sip whilst they drink. It makes her giggly and trip over her own feet.

Even inebriated, she’s still the best, piping them into perfect circles. The teacher is a guy called Pierre and he keeps stopping by Kiara’s work station, filling up her champagne flute with an exaggerated wink. JJ comes over from his counter, flour in his hair, food colouring on his cheek and hands.

“How come yours are so good?” he pouts, and then before she can stop him he’s stuck his finger in three of hers, flattening them. She snatches the tray away from him, kicks him in the shins.

They sandwich them together with buttercream once they’re cool. JJ’s got significantly less than her and they’re all misshapen. There are crumbs on his lips.

_The Pogues (and Sarah)_

**JJ [5:56]:** on a super fancy bus filled with kooks

 **JJ [5:57]:** who hate us

 **JJ [5:57]:** which is discrimination

 **Kie [5:57]:** He sprayed super fancy champagne everywhere

 **JJ [5:57]:** which i paid for btw

 **John B [5:58]:** Let the man spray!!

They go to a few war fields because they can’t not when the history is right there. France is hot and things seem to have variable opening hours depending on the wind, the time of day, or the will of the people.

Everyone smokes, and JJ insists there is a higher rate of three-legged dogs than anywhere else he’s ever been.

“Are you saying there’s a French conspiracy and they purposefully mutilate their dogs?”

“I’m just saying it’s _suspicious_ , Kie.”

He starts pointing out each one when they pass any, and she’s half minded to agree with him. It is kind of suspicious.

“It’s probably the higher rate of dog ownership,” Pope tells them, when JJ voices his theory. “Or maybe they’re more likely to amputate than perform corrective surgery.”

“Do you reckon they eat them, as well?” JJ proposes, because she’d ordered sautéed garlic snails and frogs’ legs at a restaurant last night and he’s still offended that he was forced to try both. Had whined _please don’t make me, I have a very sensitive palate_ but eventually given in, because he’s susceptible to peer pressure.

Turns out Metro advertisements do work, because JJ sees one for Euro Disney and won’t shut up about it until she agrees to go.

“It’s apparently just a shittier, smaller version of Disney,” she tells him, to keep his expectations in line.

“Don’t care,” he’s smug, now he’s won. “I’ve never been to Disney either.”

Never been on a rollercoaster either, judging by the way he grabs her hand. His palm is slick, but she links their fingers together. Laughs as he screams when they’re shooting along upside down.

“Fuck,” he says once they’re released from their seats. “That was incredible. Again?”

The queuing is the worst – he’s drunk a ridiculous amount of soda and bounces on his heels, tapping at the barriers in some nonsensical rhythm.

She takes a picture of him in front of the Disney castle. He’s scowling at the camera.

 **John B [5:16]:** CUTE

It’s 704 steps and an elevator to get to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Kiara takes various pictures at the top. There’s a rare breeze which wicks away the sweat on her forehead. JJ’s bouncing around the platform, surveying the city from all angles.

He comes and stands too close, because she’s now been fully accepted into JJ’s trusted circle for platonic physical contact. His arm is warm where it presses against hers. The wind drags locks of hair from his forehead, and he’s got an easy, relaxed look on his face.

It strikes her then that she could kiss him, and he’d probably let her. His lip hasn’t been split in months; his face free of bruises. His knuckles have mostly healed, but he likes to pick at the scabs. He’s looking at her curiously, as her gaze rests on his lips.

Kiara turns away. Says, “weed’s legal in Amsterdam.”

“Good God,” he tilts his head back, exposing the column of his throat. His eyes close. “I love the way you think, girl.”

He chooses _Champagne Supernova_ by Oasis. Kiara opts for _La Vie En Rose_ by Edith Piaf, because her dad had sent her a link as soon as she’d told him they were in Paris and it had made her distinctly homesick.

“This is the weirdest fucking playlist ever,” JJ complains, but he’s already leaned against the side of the train, eyes closed, and automatically lifts his arm so she can slot under it. It’s a gesture that makes her heart clench, so filled with assuming trust and faith.

It takes roughly three and a half hours on the train from Paris. She sleeps for an hour before JJ’s restlessness jostles her head and she wakes up. He doesn’t look particularly sorry.

The cards she’d bought are thin, popular London landmarks depicted on the back. They play Go Fish on the flimsy plastic trays attached to the chairs in front. Then rounds of rock, paper, scissors. She teaches him how to play Bullshit for two players, removing half of the shuffled deck. He cheats almost every time, but she barely catches him.

Amsterdam’s accommodation is harder to come by. They end up in hostel dorms for twelve people, segregated by sex. It feels weird to be picking out a bunk and trying to fit her backpack into the designated locker without his familiar presence in the room. She calls her parents briefly, raves about the French cuisine.

JJ’s slouched in the communal area when she’s ready to leave, rolling a joint between his fingers.

“How did you even get that so quickly?” she’s reluctantly impressed. “You’ve been alone for what, half an hour?”

“A gentleman never tells,” he has his lighter in one hand, the joint between his lips. Does wait until they’re down the stairs and on the street before lighting up. The first drag he takes looks like he’s repenting for all his sins, brow lightly furrowed.

He holds the smoke in for a beat, passes the joint to Kiara. It’s nice; warm and familiar.

They get _Patat_ in red and white striped cardboard cones, which JJ ascertains are basically just fries. There are canals everywhere, and JJ keeps having to snatch her out of the way of bicycles. Everyone seems to be on two wheels, speeding along without hesitating. They have a beer outside a bar, which is mostly foamy head. Kiara gets a white moustache; JJ snaps a picture before telling her about it.

The red-light district is renowned, and it’s mostly curiosity which fuels their visit. Girls dance in windows, beckon people closer. JJ doesn’t know where to look, mainly keeps his gaze on the floor or Kiara.

He mutters, “bit much, isn’t it,” when Kiara teases him.

They decide to call it a night earlier than normal. Kiara collapses into her bunk, lightly buzzed, limbs warm and heavy, and doesn’t wake up until her phone vibrates under her pillow.

It takes ten texts before JJ finally responds, and he emerges bleary eyed and squinting. Kiara pushes him towards the showers, then navigates their way to Boerejongens, a weed coffee shop.

JJ’s never complained about it being too early for weed. He orders two brownies for himself, advises Kiara to have one.

“Edibles aren’t like weed,” he says in a wise tone. “It doesn’t hit all at once, but when it does, you’ll see the devil if you’ve had too much.”

She orders two anyway, out of spite. Eats one and sips the coffee along with it. Nothing happens for half an hour, so she has half of the second.

“I wouldn’t,” JJ looks more amused than scolding. He’s still picking at his first, his eyes a little glassy.

The brownies are good, and she finishes the second one quickly. JJ’s wrapped his up, slipped it into her purse when he thought she wasn’t looking.

Weed isn’t something she’s a stranger to. The brownies still haven’t kicked in bar a slight softening of her vision. “This weed ain’t shit,” she complains, and JJ looks at her from across the table, one eyebrow raised.

Fifteen minutes later, the brownies have definitely landed. She stumbles whilst getting up from the table, curls her hands around the edge of the table with a quiet, “woah.” JJ is inside settling the check, comes back to find her stock still, unblinking.

“Here we fucking go,” he says, mostly to himself, she thinks. Is not quite sure, because he’s very far away and she’s very small.

“Oh no,” she says very quietly.

“No shit, oh fucking no.”

His grip on her upper arm is firm, and she stumbles behind him. He has his phone out, is searching for something. Finally he stops, sitting down and pulling her with him.

The grass is cool beneath her legs and it feels like something’s going to emerge from it, claw at her skin. She rubs a hand along her legs to check they’re still there.

She starts crying after an hour and a half, as the clouds grow bigger and start coming towards her. “I don’t like it,” she complains, “make it stop.”

JJ’s arm is strong around her waist when she tries to scramble up, pulling her back down. She collapses against his shoulder, puts her face into his neck. He smells like Axe body spray and home.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she mumbles into his skin. “You can stop them from getting me.”

“No one’s trying to get you, Kie,” he’s left his arm around her waist. Maybe to stop her from running away.

Her legs stop feeling real again so she shifts, faceplanting JJ’s knees where they’re stretched out in front of him.

“Jesus Christ,” he says distantly, but he’s got one hand on her shoulder and is rubbing a faint circle into the material of her shirt. She focusses on her breathing, but then she forgets how to do it and starts gasping, panting. Sits upright and draws heavy breaths into reluctant lungs.

“Hey, Kie, calm down. You’re okay.” His voice sounds more concerned now, his hand twisting her hair off her neck carefully. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Breath with me,” he takes an exaggerated breath in through his nose, then out through his mouth. Kiara squints determinedly at his face, copies his actions. Her heart is still pounding.

“I feel like I’m going to die,” she tells him. Then she moves her face closer, squints harder. “You’re very pretty.”

“Well, you’re not going to die. And thanks. You’re not so bad yourself.”

“’m sorry.”

“What?”

“That I’m a mess.”

She has to put her head back down on his legs because the world is wavering.

“It’s fine. John B had the worst trip ever when we made pot brownies in tenth grade. Gotta have some respect for them after that.”

Kie hums, and she’s staring at her hands. “I should have listened to you.”

“Yup. But, to be fair to you, most people don’t.”

His eyes are rimmed with red, and he lights a cigarette. Blows out smoke. Pulls idly at a strand of her hair, twisting it through his fingers.

“You’re very pretty,” she informs him grandly. He’s smiling, not looking at her.

“We’ve already covered that.”

“Well that must make it a hundred times as true.”

“A hundred is a lot.”

“Very lots,” she agrees. “I love you.” The cigarette stills, an inch away from his lips. “You’re my best friend. I love you Pogues.” The cigarette moves again.

“Alright, Romeo.”

His hand is still tugging at her hair. It pulls on her scalp, makes her turn her cheek into his knee. He starts playing music through his phone; can never settle for a whole song, chops and changes between them.

The worst passes two hours later, and then she’s hungry. They get a burger and fries from some hole in the wall and eat it whilst sitting on a bench. She leans into JJ and he lets her, she apologises a lot, and the sidewalk still looks like it’s going to swallow her up. Plus, everyone’s staring. They walk past a cop and Kiara is struck to the bone with fear.

“You gonna be okay?” JJ asks, and it’s early still, but she’s tired and woozy and definitely halfway to sober.

“Stop fussing,” she yawns, wrestles her eyes open. “I think I just need to sleep this off.”

She sleeps for three hours, then people start coming in and out and she twitches awake. Can’t go back to sleep. It’s half nine when she checks her phone. There are a few texts from her mom, one from Pope.

She tries to even her breathing out to get back to sleep, but then she hyper-fixates on it, gasps raggedly. There’s dread in her stomach, closing up her throat. She wants to cry. Wants to go home. Wants her mom to hug her, her dad to press a kiss to her forehead.

She goes to the next best thing, pulling on a hoodie and keeping the hood up to disguise her hair. Wears a baggy pair of sweats. The boy’s dorm smells distinctly less fragrant, and she can’t see the familiar mop of blonde hair anywhere.

She does recognise his sneakers, and then a sweatshirt bundled on the pillow. The sheets are crumpled and unmade, but they smell of smoke and JJ and home as she lies on them. She texts him three times to find out where he is, gnawing on her thumbnail as she waits for the response.

One never comes, and she wraps her arms around her legs, pulls them to her chest, and bites into the skin to stop herself from sobbing.

She must fall asleep, or disassociate, or something. Because the next thing she knows is someone saying, “Kie?” in a confused tone. His voice is quiet, not wanting to draw attention to the exchange. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I can’t sleep,” she explains in a rush, “and I think if I do, I might never wake up, and I feel like something awful’s going to happen and I don’t know what to do. I want to go home.”

“You’re just paranoid. It’s normal.”

It doesn’t feel normal. And knowing it’s normal doesn’t make it any better.

“Can I stay here?”

JJ doesn’t say anything. Keeps looking down at her.

Someone says, “my bed’s always open, love,” in a jeer, and Kiara flushes, makes to stand up. But something twitches in JJ’s jaw, and he’s pulling off his sweatshirt and shoes and socks.

“Budge over then,” he tells her quietly.

She presses herself against the wall, and the mattress dips under his weight. It creates an indent which means she naturally gravitates towards him. He’s tense as she tucks her chin against his shoulder, breaths in deeply. Remains on her side, to take up the least amount of space possible.

“Is this okay?” she whispers.

“Yeah. Go to sleep, Kie.”

She does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all your kind reviews!! i revel in affirmation as much as the next person, so they really do make my day :)


	5. amsterdam - munich.

*

The thick hoodie rides up in the night, or maybe sleeping Kiara pulls it up. They’re back to back, their spines connecting at a singular point. She practically has to peel their skin apart, which is gross. Although the movement is as slow as she can make it, JJ still stirs.

She’d kept jerking awake in the night, anxiety rising each time. Can almost feel the dark shadows under her eyes.

“You kicked me all night,” JJ complains in a mumble, and Kiara doesn’t even know if he’s slept. She shuffles onto her other side to face him, shoulders to the wall, and he moves onto his back in the newly relinquished space. “And you farted. And snored. And why the fuck do you sweat so much?”

“I did not,” she hisses back. “Plus, it’s hot in here. Natural reaction. What, do you think girls don’t sweat?”

“Oh, I fucking know they do.”

She’s tempted to bite his shoulder, because it’s right there. Instead she sighs, closes her eyes. “I feel like shit.”

“You don’t look great.”

“Such a charmer. Remind me, how do you ever get laid?”

“You’re already in my bed,” he points out. “So I’m already most of the way there.”

“Consent, JJ,” she reminds him, and she sits up with a yawn. Tugs the hoodie down to her hips once more. “I still feel like the world’s ending.”

“Yeah, that’ll pass,” the words are muffled, and he turns his cheek into the pillow.

He doesn’t move to let her out, so Kiara slides to the end of the bed and purposefully sits heavily on his legs to get past. She looks innocent when he glares at her.

“I’m going to shower,” she lowers her voice, pulls her hood back up. No one’s really said anything about her being here, and she thinks there’s a girl in some guy’s bed across the room. But it’s not like she wants to draw attention to herself. She’s already fragile enough, without having to deal with some pissed off employee or hostel manager.

“Don’t drown.”

“Good one. Be ready to leave in an hour?”

“Probably not.”

The shower fluctuates between hot and cold rapidly, so she has to jump in and out of the spray. It still ranks in the top ten showers of her entire life. Her hair no longer smells like smoke, and she can almost visualise the potent edibles whirling down the drain. She’d even had the foresight to bring her moisturiser into the shower cubicle, so she can towel off and maintain optimal skincare.

When she emerges, mostly fully dressed, she’s faced by three girls standing naked in the communal area before the shower cubicles. They’re chatting between themselves in some European language, going about their routine as though it’s normal for friends to get a complete eyeful. They look over as she almost walks into the wall, then dismiss her. Kiara decides Europeans are weirder than initially thought.

She still gets hit by waves of anxiety, of paranoia. All the usual suspects, but amped up to a thousand. Tries to soothe her way out of it by tugging products through her hair (carefully detangling each knot with her fingers), changing into a clean shirt and shorts. Even the fresh socks feel like a luxury.

JJ’s not in the communal area when she emerges. Kiara sits, her foot tapping against the foot of the couch. Ten minutes crawl by. She texts, then rings him. Every time the door to the boy’s dormitory opens she looks up, but it’s not him.

His phone finally connects, but he doesn’t speak. Hangs up approximately three seconds after picking up. His hair’s flat on one side when he does shuffle from the dormitory, pulling a faded cap onto his head.

“I’ve called and text you a bunch of times,” she complains, and she’s standing way too close. He stops, looks at her.

“Well, someone kept me up last night,” he gives her a significant look.

Something makes her hand twitch at her side. “I’m sorry,” she says honestly. “And if I did any weird shit or anything – sorry for that as well.”

As usual, JJ becomes unnerved by the first signs of anything emotional. “’S cool. You mostly just cried and said the clouds were coming for you. With a few compliments in the middle. Wasn’t the worst.”

“Me and edibles are officially over. Forever.”

JJ hums in a disbelieving manner. Retrieves a battered box of cigarettes from his back pocket. “You wanna go pick fruit?”

“Fruit?”

“Yeah.”

They hire bikes from one of the many kiosks and have to cycle for half an hour. Kiara’s pleasantly surprised by how she manages to keep up with JJ, tailing him closely. He balances his phone on the handlebars and navigates the way to Fruittuin van West, some fruit farm in the city.

They have apples and pears in an orchard, and mushrooms in a covered, darkened polytunnel. They’re given baskets and walk slowly, pulling the fruits from the branches. JJ likes to reach for the highest branches to find the so called perfect specimen. Each fruit he selects is rated on a scale of one to ten for appearance and expected taste.

“Don’t pick too many pears,” Kiara advises, as they move from apple to pear trees.

“Why? You’re always saying we should eat more fruit.”

“Pears give me the shits, so.”

JJ looks overjoyed at the confession. “I’m just so glad you feel you can share that with the group, Kie. No, seriously. This is a new level to our friendship.”

“I care more about wasting food products,” she tells him primly. “Only take as much as you can eat.”

“Those brownies really did a number on you, huh.”

They go into the darkened polytunnels to see how the mushrooms are grown and harvested, mostly because JJ pesters her until they do.

“I don’t think these are the type of mushrooms you were anticipating,” she says to him lowly, and the set of his mouth confirms her suspicions.

Their pickings are weighed at the counter and handed to them in brown paper bags. JJ immediately takes out a pear and bites into it, juice escaping down his chin. Kiara opts for an apple. It’s crisp and sweet and perfect.

“Thank you.”

JJ looks at her, shrugs a shoulder. “If you keep your body busy, your mind usually follows.”

“You’re a lot nicer than you pretend to be.”

His grin’s sharp, all teeth.

They cycle back slower than on the way, taking in the view. Hand the bikes back just ten minutes before the kiosk shuts for the day.

JJ bites into another pear on the sidewalk. At this point, Kiara is beginning to wonder if it’s purposeful.

“I reckon you owe me dinner. A fancy one. Candles and steak and shit.”

Kiara sighs, looks to the sky briefly. “Fine. But change into some pants first.”

She calculates that he eats his saved brownie just before dinner, because he spaces out just after the starters. Kiara kicks him in the shins.

“Are you high right now?” she hisses over the table.

“I can neither confirm nor deny that accusation.” His eyes are rimmed red, and his gaze slides rather than darts. His movements are like he’s underwater, a fraction of a second behind the usual JJ frantic way. Kiara knows him well enough by now to recognise his tells.

“Seriously?”

JJ rolls his eyes slowly. “At least I’m not crying, or think I’m gonna die.”

High JJ can go in several different directions. This one is sleepy and affectionate, wrapping one arm around her shoulders as they walk.

“Where were you last night?” she asks, as they wander slowly around the canal.

“Walking,” she looks at him. “Couldn’t sleep.” She’s still looking at him. He doesn’t look back. “Too many people.”

These are the times when you can finally get something out of JJ Maybank, as long as he doesn’t feel cornered.

“You should have said.” Kiara turns away from him, carefully maintains her tone.

“’s fine. Sleeping’s hard.”

“You gonna be okay tonight?”

“Yeah,” he smiles, tries to hide it by rubbing his chin into his shoulder. “I’m good.”

“I can always sit with you, if you want.”

His breath huffs through his nose in a semblance of a disbelieving laugh. “’m not a child.”

“It’s weird, being in separate dorms.”

JJ exhales slowly. They’ve stopped and leant against the metal railings before a canal. The hostel is just a block over. “Yeah,” he agrees. Then he’s leaning on her, and his arm moves so his thumb rests on her jawline. “I miss you. And your snoring.”

She puts her hand over his, trapping his fingers against her face. “I’ll get better accommodation next time. Smaller dorms, so you can sleep.”

His fingers move, so she releases him. His hand drops, resting on her upper arm. His chin perches on her shoulder. “Okay. You smell good. Chocolate?”

“Cocoa butter.” Kiara starts walking them back to the hostel, but he’s a deadweight, feet scuffing across the cobbles.

“I like chocolate.”

“Everyone likes chocolate.”

“Does Pope like the smell?”

Kiara frowns. He can’t see it, still tucked around her. It’s a struggle to manoeuvre six foot of high and overly physical human and the keycard to let them back into the hostel. “I don’t know. Ask him.”

“Doesn’t really talk ‘bout you,” JJ explains, leaning against the wall with some persuasion. He’s wrangled a pear from somewhere, bites into the flesh.

“You do know me and him aren’t a thing anymore, right?” Kiara asks slowly.

“Mmm, yeah. He said. Sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry – but he doesn’t sound particularly anything, apart from worn out and groggy. “No Pogue macking, I know.”

They negotiate the stairs like the world’s slowest three-legged race. JJ hugs her for a long time outside the dorms, his nose in her neck. It’s weird but also strangely endearing. Kiara pats at his hair, and he sighs noisily.

“Okay,” Kiara pushes at his shoulders, so he stands up straight. “You gonna be okay? Do you know which bed’s yours? Don’t get in anyone else’s, that could be weird.”

“Just by the door,” he confirms, and Kiara’s relieved that he has some orientation left. He yawns widely. “’night, Kie. Love you.”

“You too, buddy. Don’t die. I’ve set your alarm.”

JJ sends her finger guns just before he pushes the door open.

Kiara brushes her teeth, changes under the covers, and tries to sleep. Is overcome with anxiety about some hypothetical situation where JJ is still wandering around like some sedated teddy bear. The floor’s cool beneath her feet and she pulls on her hoodie, ready to sneak back into the boy’s dorm. When she exits the dormitory, a girl is standing at the end of the hallway, wearing a bright green employee’s t-shirt. Kiara bites back her frustration and points towards the bathroom.

She still can’t sleep. Not until she gets a Snapchat from JJ, only his nose and eyes visible as he films his face and the audio of the dorm. _CONGRATS this guy snores louder than u_.

Relieved that he’s at least horizontal and alive, Kiara falls asleep.

They go to the Van Gogh museum. JJ declares that _this dude must have been on some fucked up shit._ They cram themselves into specialist smoking rooms in one of the various marijuana cafes and share a joint. Kiara is wary at first, but JJ insists she has to get straight back to it or she’ll forever be hung up on the experience. It’s fine, this time, exactly how it usually is. She tries and fails to blow smoke rings; JJ does so effortlessly.

Afterwards, the hire bikes and cycle around for a whole day. It rains the next day, so they manage to get last minute tickets and go to the Anne Frank museum. They have audio guides and even JJ stills, scanning each display and listening intently. They’re quiet when they emerge, hiding under the canopy of a nearby shop to get away from the rain.

JJ says, “fuck,” which somehow sums up the entire experience.

“Yeah,” she agrees. “Fuck.”

They go to a food market which has various different street food stalls. Sit at the end of a full table. JJ reappears with two clear drinks in plastic cups. It’s gin and tonic when she sips through the straw, and she kicks him lightly in the knee in protest. Doesn’t want to admit that the taste is growing on her.

After three gin and tonics, Kiara takes a messy bite of a boa bun and looks into the middle distance. “It’s more than three weeks since we left.”

JJ’s expression doesn’t change, which means he’s well aware of this fact. He keeps plaintively trying to pick up noodles with chopsticks, a crease of concentration between his eyebrows. “Yup.”

“I’m going to Germany next. Maybe tomorrow.” He looks at her then, a singular noodle clamped between the wooden utensils. “You coming?”

He stares back into the box of noodles, successfully negotiates a whole mouthful. “Might come and see what Germany’s about,” he says, forcefully casual. Kiara tempers down a smile, hides it by eating the rest of the boa bun.

“There are a few stops I want to make, before Berlin,” she pulls out her phone and scrolls to the notes section. “There’s this one town on a lake, and this place near the alps. Be cool to see the mountains.”

When she looks up, he’s looking at her with gentle eyes. Looks away quickly as soon as their gazes catch. “Mountains,” he repeats. “Sounds good.”

No matter how much time they leave to catch whatever method of transport they’re using next, they always end up running somewhere. Kiara reckons they must enter some weird time vortex as soon as she books the tickets.

It’s also annoying that JJ jogs along easily with his backpack, looking as though he’s just out for a light stroll. The mesh straps chafe her arms and shoulders, the weight making her tip forwards like an oversized turtle. The bandana she’s twisted around her forehead is damp with sweat.

“C’mon, Kie,” JJ says, turning around and jogging backwards.

“Eat shit and die,” she tells him, but she drags her reluctant feet into a slightly faster jog.

He posts a picture of her pushing her backpack onto the train travel racks, her shirt damp with sweat, her cheeks red.

_Pogues (and Sarah)_

**JJ [7:38]:** kie serving them travel LOOKS

**Pope [8:01]:** I’m more impressed that JJ’s out of bed before 8. In the morning.

**John B [8:07]:** Concurred

**JJ [8:15]:** you of little faith

**Pope [8:16]:** Ye. Ye of little faith.

**JJ [8:18]:** i said what i said

Kiara swats his arm for posting the picture. Retaliates by posting a video of him trying to fit a whole stroopwaffel into his mouth to Instagram, strings of saliva creeping from the corners of lips.

“That’s not fair,” he complains when he sees the post. “Whatsapp and Instagram are not comparable. And you didn’t even story it!”

He chooses _Stay High_ by Tove Lo; Kiara picks _Left Hand Free_ by Alt J.

They stop first at Cologne, then Frankfurt. Spend two days in Stuttgart and quickly realise why it’s considered a manufacturing hub and not featured much in tourist guides. They finally reach the town of Garmisch-Partenkirchen, with snow dusted Alps as the backdrop. It’s so far removed from the sand and beaches of Outer Banks that it takes her breath away.

It’s early October, and the air is cooler. The hostel is wooden clad with dense walls, clearly made for warmth. The town is quiet, in the transitional stage between the summer tourists and waiting for the first fall of snow before the ski season commences.

She’s booked a twin room especially. JJ doesn’t comment on it.

There are hints of the impending ski season everywhere. Long, thin lockers for storing skis. Boot jacks outside stores. Machinery working on the side of mountains, trimming back tree branches and smoothing the terrain.

They take a gondola ride up a nearby mountain peak. The cart bounces gently on the thick wires when the wind picks up. They can see across four regions, mountains and greenery stretching as far as they can see.

“This feels like a film or some shit,” JJ has his hands pressed to the glass window. Kiara can’t look directly downwards without her stomach dipping in fear, just keeps looking around.

They depart the gondola at the Olympic ski stadium and walk down to the Partnach Gorge. There’s a small entrance fee to use the footpaths around the gorge. Water crashes down a waterfall and rock extends up either side of them. Kiara keeps one hand on the stone, whereas JJ likes to peer over the rope barrier into the water. It makes her heart jolt into her throat, and she can’t help but grab his shirt on the third time. He shoots her a bemused look.

“You look like you’re going to fall in, dumbass,” she berates.

“This is insane,” he enthuses. “Are you seeing this shit?”

They go for a mini hike after the gorge. Find a viewpoint through the trees where they can stand and stare down over the valley. Now he’s done some physical exercise, JJ’s better at standing still. There’s no noise apart from a few birds, and the breeze stirring the trees.

“God, that silence.” Kiara thinks she’s probably gone around all day with a revered look on her face. Doesn’t even care.

“I miss silence,” JJ’s squinting at the distance, twirling a leaf he’s plucked from a nearby tree between his knuckles.

“It’s silent right now, if you close your damn mouth.”

“Ah,” JJ taps one ear. “Tinnitus. Not been silent since August 2011. God bless Luke Maybank’s right hook.”

“JJ,” she tests, and waits a beat. He doesn’t shrug her off or walk away. Just looks briefly at her. “You don’t deserve that.”

He shrugs, moves his feet. “It’s not that bad. I’m used to it now. Barely even notice it’s there. I think it adds a certain _je ne sais quoi_ to things.”

“Not just the tinnitus, JJ.” She thinks he might retreat if she touches him. Presses her nails into her palms to fight the urge to fling her arms around his waist. “What your dad did – it’s super shitty. Abusive and wrong. It should never have happened. And it’s not – it’s not your fault.”

Trying to get JJ to reveal any sort of emotion is like trying to catch running water in your fingers. He’s already moving away, jumping down from the log they’ve climbed on to give a boost to their view. “Well, he’s not here now,” he calls over his shoulder. “So we’re all good.”

She does hug him, later on. Ambushes him when she returns from the bathroom and he’s pulling something from his backpack. Bands her arms around his waist and buries her head into his shoulder.

“Woah, okay,” he turns in her grasp but doesn’t pull away. Slowly curves his arms around her shoulders, rubs his thumb under the arm of her tank. “You okay?”

“I miss home,” she lies. His shirt smells like the laundry detergent that they use at the Chateau.

“We could call John B and Pope?” he proposes. “Or you could call your parents,” the second is added as an afterthought, like the idea of parents doesn’t quite correlate with him.

When she’d first found out about his dad in no uncertain way, Kiara had cried herself to sleep for three nights. Because everything suddenly made sense. The unexplained injuries, JJ’s weird approach to anything physical. His constant presence around the Chateau. The tense set of John B’s jaw when he fails to show up when promised. Kiara had assumed it was just because he was a loose cannon, smashing through life without a care.

Then he’d gone to jail and Pope had admitted between heaving sobs that it was him who had pulled the plug on the Kooks boat. Had made her promise not to tell.

She’s seen the thread of unanswered texts to the contact saved as _dad._ The photos he sends his father. JJ in front of the Eiffel Tower, JJ fishing in Cornwall. The snow topped Alps. The blue ticks hover at the bottom right of each message mockingly.

JJ wakes her up one morning full of restless energy. He taps on the bedside table like it’s a drum solo, sings under his breath. Kiara eventually snaps.

“JJ! Get the fuck out and let me sleep!”

Finally, he goes on a hike, taking some supplies and a thick sweatshirt. Kiara makes him turn on his Find My Friend in case he wanders into trouble.

It’s freeing to walk around the stores in town without feeling hurried, or like he’s waiting for her to finish. He sends her a picture of a tree that looks like it has boobs.

JJ talks her into hang gliding. They have to book in and wait for the perfect weather conditions. She’s strapped to an instructor and her heart is beating five times it’s normal rate, her palms and forehead slick. She can feel a trickle of sweat from her bra line. The harness is restrictive.

“I hate you,” she tells him, loudly. Her instructor’s taller than her and she has to stand on her tiptoes on the beginning of the launch point. Some small part of her reminds her that this is probably the closest she’s been to anyone since Emily in London.

Her instructor counts down from three, but starts running on two. Kiara yells, sneakers scrabbling to keep up. They reach the end of the launching site and there’s just empty space and trees and mountain in front of them. Kiara tries to suppress a sob as they fall, and then the wings catch and they’re gliding, flying, and she’s screaming and laughing, her eyes streaming. She looks around at the trees and the mountains and the town, her clothes whipping around her.

“I’m never doing that again,” her knees are weak, so she just hangs limply in the harness until it’s unbuckled. Starts swaying once she hits the ground. Her stomach is in turmoil. She’s thankful that she hadn’t been able to eat anything for breakfast out of nerves.

JJ lands far more gracefully than she had. He’s talking a mile a minute. Comes right up to Kiara once she’s unharnessed.

“Holy shit – that was _awesome._ Felt like proper flying. God, I wish I was The Falcon or something – that was so cool. Did you see the trees? I thought we were going to hit one.”

His excited chatter washes over her, reassuring and steady. “I’m not sure I can walk,” she admits, testing her legs. “God, that was the absolute worst.”

He’s grinning widely, throwing an arm around her shoulders. “Don’t lie to me, Kie.”

They stay for twelve days which is a new record. She sends JJ off for a run or a hike whenever he gets too restless. Kiara decides she likes the Germans, who are efficient and practical. They have to leave their number and anticipated hiking route at the front desk whenever they head out into the mountains. It feels vaguely parental, but she doesn’t hate it.

JJ seems reluctant to leave, but eventually agrees. He’s quieter on the train, almost sulky. Adds _What a Wonderful World_ by Louis Armstrong to the playlist. Kiara shoots him a look, settles on _To Build a Home_ by The Cinematic Orchestra. JJ frowns as he listens to it.

“It’s a good song,” she protests, aggrieved.

“Right. You always choose such cheerful ones.”

They land in Munich on the second to last day of Oktoberfest.

“What the fuck?” the only train they could get arrived in early evening, once the sun has set. They wear sweats and a jacket in the cool air. There are people in actual Lederhosen; women in short patterned dresses. They have to push through the crowds to get to their hostel, which is buzzing with excitement.

“Oktoberfest,” the receptionist explains. “You can buy tickets from us here, if you want. It’s the last day tomorrow.”

They dump their backpacks in the room and go for a walk. Buy a currywurst on the way, which JJ adores but Kiara is suspicious of.

One of the ticket packages comes with an archery lesson. JJ turns pleading eyes upon her, so Kiara relents and buys that one. They’re whisked away on a rattling bus from outside their hostel at nine in the morning. The tour guide is annoyingly perky and keeps pointing out landmarks and providing trivia facts over the bus’s intercom system. JJ pulls his hood over his head and slumps in the seat.

Naturally, JJ’s annoyingly good at archery, once he takes on board the instructor’s comments. He’s too busy trying to re-enact the stance of Hawkeye for the first few arrows.

“Hey Kie,” he turns to her with an arrow notched on the bow, string pulled half back. “Take a picture.”

“No arrows at humans!” the instructor shrieks, and he’s marching over, eyes blazing. “Only towards actual targets! No humans!”

Kiara takes a picture as he gets berated by the angry German. JJ pulls a face at the instructor’s retreating back, then lets an arrow fly. It hits an almost perfect bullseye. Kiara thinks the instructor glares at him.

Kiara’s first arrows miss the target completely. “You’re too tense,” JJ informs her, standing very close to her back. “You need to just try and visualise where the arrow needs to end up. Stop overthinking.”

Kiara tries to unclench her arm muscles, breath out. JJ steps in and makes an adjustment to her position, hands gentle on her wrist.

“Who died and made you Hawkeye?” she complains, before letting the string go. It clatters against her arm guard with a twang. The arrow sails through the air and hits the target. Not quite within the coloured circles, but it’s an improvement.

JJ claps her shoulder sarcastically. “Good job.” Kiara stamps on his toes, but he snatches his foot out of the way. “You need to use your core,” he’s back at her shoulder. Pressing a hand into her stomach. Kiara sucks it in quickly. “You’re just using your arms. Here, look.” He steps back up to the markings for his target, takes an arrow from the tub next to it. Kiara watches him closely. His arms, pulling the string. His hand, clenched around the bow to keep it steady. The arrow lands just left of bullseye.

“I mean, you’re wearing quite a lot of clothes so I can’t see much,” she tells him.

“Oh, I’m sure you would prefer less clothing. Filth.” He comes back to her shoulder. Says, “core,” and his hand ghosts across her ribs. Kiara’s breath catches, then gusts out slowly. Her fingers tremble as she pulls the string back, trying to clench her stomach muscles at the same time. The arrow whooshes through the air and hits the outermost circle.

“Hah,” he’s still at her shoulder, close when she twists to look at him. “Beat you.”

JJ lets three arrows go in quick succession, all thudding in or around the centre circle.

All the rest of hers connect with the target. She tries to copy JJ’s technique, using her core to stabilise herself. Keeps her feet the designated width apart. Lets loose her last arrow.

It thumps right onto the bullseye. JJ whoops next to her, down her ear. “There you fucking go!”

They have a supposedly traditional lunch of dumplings, pork chops and pickled cabbage. JJ prods the cabbage suspiciously with his fork, then takes a hesitant bite.

They both laugh when the ‘traditional’ Oktoberfest outfits are brought out. Lederhosen, white shirts and braces for the men. Dirndl dresses for women, with white aprons and white, puffy sleeves. Kiara is outraged with it.

“This is cultural appropriation,” she hisses. “Or misogyny. Or – worse - both.”

JJ’s eyes sweep over her legs, briefly over the low-cut top of the blouse beneath the dress. “Looking excellent as always, Kie,” his tone is mocking. He’s seen her in less but something about the look makes her want to flush or hide. Instead she pushes at his chin.

He’s taken off the supposedly traditional hat. His hair is longer now, curling around his ears. With the white socks and his black boots he looks the part. “God, you look like the perfect Aryan,” she says, because she’s been staring a bit too long for it to be normal.

JJ grins at her.

The bus takes them back to the centre of town so they can leave their clothes at their hostels. Kiara quickly swaps her day purse for a smaller evening one. Then they’re back on the bus and driven to a nearby warehouse which has supposedly been converted for the festival. There are long trestle tables and wooden benches running alongside each as they walk in. Their hands get stamped with smudged ink. Everyone is wearing costumes like they are, so Kiara feels less out of place. There’s a band setting up on the stage, the faint wheeze of an accordion.

JJ says _Jesus Christ_ under his breath, but then he sees a waitress balancing approximately ten steins in her arms. His eyes light up at the sheer quantity of alcohol.

There’s a tray of welcome shots on their table. They’ve formed a few easy alliances throughout the day, some small talk with other people on the same trip. JJ palms two extra shots, hands one quickly to her. It’s Jägermeister, and JJ reels out the same old fact about it having medicinal qualities.

The steins are heavy and make her wrists ache when she carries two. There are so many different beers on tap that she gets flustered at her choice, the bar woman staring heavily at her. JJ’s talking to someone at the table when she gets back, offers his hand wordlessly to her to help her climb over the bench. He shoots her a quick smile, brushes his fingers lightly over the small of her back.

Kiara gets drawn into conversation with the woman next to her, who’s actually from Munich, but had brought her English visiting friend on the tour. She says, “oh, you were the two who were good at archery,” and Kiara can’t help but grin that someone had noticed. Has to ask her to repeat the next sentence twice, because the band’s started up and they’re loud and brassy. “You’re a really cute couple!” the girl shouts down her ear, and it’s too loud and too much effort to correct her. JJ’s arm is warm where it’s pressed against hers, their knees knocking.

Things get rowdy extremely quickly. People are dancing on the benches and the tables, stomping their feet to the band. Beer is being spilled left, right and centre. People jostle into her; people fall from benches. Every time someone falls there’s a crowd to lift them back up, dust them down.

It’s the last night of the festival, so they start selling off beer at cheaper rates to run down the stock. JJ challenges her to a race to chug a stein. Most of it goes down her chin, a hand cupped in vain to catch any spills.

The crowds chant and she doesn’t know what they’re singing, but she claps and stamps along to the rhythms anyway. Matches JJ for every drink, which will probably taste like regret in the morning.

He goes to the bar for his round, takes ages getting served. Kiara is dancing and whooping and hollering with the rest of them on the table, the German girl teaching some complicated clapping and slapping. They’re laughing, shoulders knocking.

JJ’s standing with a stein in each hand, watching. It doesn’t feel creepy or exhibitionist. He raises a stein when she catches his gaze. She takes the cool glass, offers him her other hand so he can step onto the bench and onto the table. Their fingers interlock.

They’ve been dancing together for years. When she pulls him off the couch, cajoles him off driftwood in the Boneyard. When they’ve persuaded the last of the customer’s out of The Wreck.

“You look good,” there’s no edge to it, no challenge. He’s looking at her forehead when he says it.

“Not so bad yourself,” she grins, and she thinks there’s something red and smudged on his neck.

He spins her away, hand in hers. She chugs from the stein as she goes, beer spilling over her hand. She licks the droplets from her wrist. JJ’s watching her again, has gone still. He looks away quickly when she looks back at him.

The line for the bathroom is long and winding. She makes friends with the girls next to her in the queue. They compliment her hair and she compliments their make up and nail polish, then they’re shouldering their way into the men’s toilets and beelining for the empty cubicles despite the shouts of outrage. One girl asks whether she should text her ex and Kiara and the other shout no at the top of their voices, then canvas opinions from the men at the urinals.

“It’s a unanimous no,” Kiara informs Gemma, clapping her on the shoulder. “The people have spoken.”

She dances with them both on the dancefloor in front of the band. Moves her hips and shoulders, tilts her head back and just moves.

JJ’s still at the table, but he’s sitting on the bench now. Has his hand on some girl’s knee, his face close to her ear. It makes Kiara’s throat clam up, inexplicably. She’s tempted to spin away back to the dancefloor. Get some Jägermeister from one of the waitresses holding trays and parading around. But she’s too close now, too indecisive, and JJ’s looking up. Is standing up, coming towards her. Smiling, but with an edge to it.

“Where have you been? I was about to send out a search party.”

“Made some friends, at the bathroom. We did a public consensus. Gemma should _not_ text her ex boyfriend.”

His face has relaxed, his tongue touching his bottom lip. “Gemma should not,” he agrees. Kiara can see the girl he’d been speaking to leaving. It shouldn’t make her happy.

“Drink?”

The bar’s four people deep and rammed, shoulders against shoulders. Kiara pushes through, inhibitions gone. JJ follows. Brackets her in at the bar, arms either side, so she doesn’t get pushed around.

His chest is to her back, or maybe she’s leant back against him. She’s not sure. He’s pushed the sleeves of the shirt up past his elbows. The band’s got their second wind, are still overpowering. JJ has to speak loudly to be heard, his breath stirring the baby hair at the base of her neck. “Which one you thinking?”

“The cheapest,” she turns her head to reply, and he’s extremely close. “I can’t tell the difference, at this point.”

His laugh is more of an exhale, a gust of warm breath against her skin. She doesn’t drop his hand for the rest of the night.

They get a taxi back to their hostel. The roads swim when she looks through the windscreen. Has to close her eyes to centre herself. Three quarters of the way back she has to clamp a hand over her mouth, slap at JJ’s knee.

He says something urgently to the driver, who pulls over sharply. JJ throws paper euros through the plastic cut out before diving after her.

Kiara has her palms flat against the side of a building, her stomach heaving. Initially she just takes deep breaths in, trying to fight the wave of nausea. The bile and entire contents of her stomach rises just as JJ reaches her, her purse in one hand.

“This is just sheer quantity,” she informs him grandly, standing up straight, wiping her hand over her mouth. He’s looking at her, all amused and triumphant. “I can still drink more than you. I just have a smaller stomach. Basic biology.”

He rubs between her shoulder blades as she coughs and splutters once more. Then, at her request, they hunt down a 24/7 supermarket and purchase litre and a half bottles of water. Empty them over the sidewalk to wash the evidence into the gutter.

“You don’t have to do this,” JJ says wryly. “We’ve passed like a hundred people throwing up.”

Kiara takes a long drink of water before emptying the rest of the bottle out, standing to one side as it washes away. “Just polite thing to do, JJ.”

She makes him carry all the empty plastic bottles home, because Germany has a really cool plastic recycling system in their supermarkets.

She’s claimed top bunk this time and it takes four goes to climb up the ladder. Then she lays down and gets straight back up, needing to pee. Brushes her teeth twice and downs two whole bottles full of water.

JJ’s lying on his bed, one hand behind his head, scrolling through his phone. Kiara collapses next to him, her hip against his. He shuffles to make room on the narrow bed.

“Are you going to puke in your sleep?” he asks.

“Probably not. Look. No puke.” She breathes hotly on his face. He scrunches his nose and turns away, presses two fingers into her shoulder.

“You’re so gross. How was I ever attracted to you.”

Kiara smiles, turns to him. He’s looking at her, his face close and fuzzy. She kisses his cheek. Kisses his forehead, but misses, catches his eyebrow instead.

“No Pogue on Pogue macking,” he says, and he’s turned to look at the bunk above. Kiara hums. Closes her eyes.

“You didn’t look too bad in lederhosen,” she appraises. Settles against the pillow.

“Out of ten?”

“Hmm. Six.”

“Six?” his voice rises from the low mumble in outrage. “I was at least a seven point five. An eight, in the right lighting.”

“You wish.”

“You were a solid eight. Until you started puking your guts up. Then you dropped to a two.”

“What’s that as an average?”

“Probably a five.”

“You’re a harsh critic, Maybank.” Kiara yawns and sits up, moving to climb into her bunk.

His voice is small, quiet. “You can stay, if you want.” She looks over her shoulder. He’s not looking at her. Still looking at the planks of her bunk which suspend the mattress. “Someone’s got to make sure you don’t choke on your own puke in the night. You can at least lessen the commute.”

“What a gentleman.” She hesitates for a second, then lies back down. She’s an affectionate drunk, and he’s extremely warm. Touch starvation is definitely a thing.

“What?” he’s frowning at her.

“What?”

“What starvation is a thing?”

“Oh. That was supposed to be an inside thought. Touch starvation.” He’s still frowning. “When you want physical contact. Not like _that_.” She swats at his arm. “Just. I don’t know. A hug. Do you not want to just be close to someone sometimes? Have them near you?”

“Yeah, tends to disappear when I come though. Then I can’t get away quick enough.”

“Probably because of your traumatic backstory.” The bunk is slightly wider than an average single bed, but not wide enough to mistake JJ going still and turning a blank look upon her. “Do you mind this?”

There are inches separating them, a clear gap between them.

JJ makes the conscious decision to relax. “I’ve shared with John B before. I’m no stranger to being sleep spooned.”

Everyone’s been spooned by John B at some point. In the hammock, on the pull out. Kiara hums in agreement.

“Kie?”

“Mm, yeah?”

“Can we switch? The wall’s cold.”

It’s a shitty excuse. One that could hide something more. Kiara’s too drunk and tired. “You go over, I’ll go under.”

He levers himself up with his arms and legs, doing a weird quasi press up. Kiara rolls across the mattress. Bumps into his arm, so he wavers then falls. Kiara laughs at him as he crashes down, managing to tuck his shoulder and land clear of her, face first into the pillow. He turns his head to glare. “Hoe,” he accuses, but it’s mild and almost fond.

“’Night, JJ.”

“Please don’t puke on me.”

She wakes up at some ungodly hour in the morning, skin clammy. She’s curled away from him and he’s kept his careful distance, but his hip is against the small of her back. Heat radiates from his skin. He stirs as she climbs over him to go pee, one eye cracking open blearily before sliding shut again.

The movement makes her stomach clench and unclench quickly. She mostly throws up bile, spitting into the toilet bowl. Drinks directly from the tap, swilling her mouth out and spitting into the sink. There’s a small mirror above the basin, so she gets a full front seat view of her half-drunk post vomit face.

Not wanting to subject herself to being stuck between the wall and an unreasonably warm human, Kiara navigates the ladder and collapses into the top bunk.

She wakes to JJ’s fingers on her wrist, where she’s got her arm outstretched. Can’t decipher the look on his face as he stands, hand through the bars.

“You weren’t snoring,” he whisper-shouts, and he’s snatched his hand away now she’s awake and looking at him. “Just checking you hadn’t died.”

Others in the dorm are starting to stir, which disrupts her getting back to sleep. She throws an arm over her eyes and dozes, trying to ignore the nausea.

“Do you have any mints?” JJ links his hand through the wooden slats, pulls himself closer. “I just threw up on my own hand brushing my teeth. I don’t know how girls do it.”

“I hope you cleaned the sink,” she grumbles. “There’s gum in my purse. Shit.” She sits up quickly, looks at him. “Do you have my purse?”

He’s already rifling through it, retrieving the pack. Kiara holds her hand out for a piece. The mint makes her feel better; less furry teethed.

“I’m never drinking again,” JJ laments.

“It’s the quantity,” Kiara reassures him. “Those steins hold a ridiculous amount of liquid.”

“No, we’re getting old.”

Kiara kicks at the side of the bunk so the whole bed rattles. “You take that back.”

“Old, Kie.”

“You’ll have consumed an alcoholic beverage within twenty-four hours. Twenty that you do.”

“I don’t want to steal your money. At least make bets that have some substance.”

They watch movies on Kiara’s phone, wedged into JJ’s bunk. Kiara keeps her back against the cool wall, her eyes closed for the most of it. JJ leaves to shower and comes back with his hair dripping onto the collar of his t-shirt.

“I feel like a new man. Re-energised. Invigorated.”

Kiara eyes him warily. “You threw up again, didn’t you?”

“You of little faith. But, maybe.”

By the evening hunger drives them from the dorm. They slump into the closest greasiest pizza joint. Kiara orders a pizza with a hole cut out of the middle, salad replacing the centre circle. JJ casts it an offended look.

“Salad, Kie?”

“We drunk a lot last night,” she chews on a piece of cucumber in demonstration. “Gotta keep that vitamin balance.”

“You don’t eat enough,” he says off-handedly. “I eat like, three times as much as you.”

Something lodges in her throat. Her Kook year, when everything spiralled out of control. When she liked Sarah Cameron (when she thought she might kiss Sarah Cameron, by the girl’s pool) and then suddenly Sarah Cameron did not like her. When the Pogue’s stopped throwing her betrayed looks and instead slid into apathy. When no one spoke to her at school because of her new found reputation as a snitch. The adjustment from being vying for top of the class with Pope to being average, unexceptional.

When the only thing she could control was what she ate, how she looked.

She’s not going to self-diagnose just because she’d dropped weight that year. Developed boobs and a perchance for bikinis. And yes, she liked the way it made people look at her. Liked the way it got her noticed. Then she was back with the Pogues and she reckons it’s mostly because of the way she looked – so she couldn’t do anything to jeopardise that.

Even if John B and Pope were looking at her chest and hips more than her face when she apologised, at least they were looking.

“You eat maybe one meal a day, and then consume all your daily calories in one sitting,” she deflects easily, cutting neatly through the thin crust of her pizza. JJ’s got grease on his chin, and half the topping on the slice he’s just bitten into slides off the base. He sighs mournfully.

“Gotta take what you can get, on the Cut,” he says easily.

“You were always eating and stealing food from John B,” she recalls, kicking at his ankles. “You must just have a weirdly fast metabolism.”

He gives her a strangely knowing look, gaze heavy.

She has to pass twenty bucks over the next morning, JJ reminding her with a shit-eating grin. They do a tour of all the main sights of Munich, then take a train to day trip to Salzburg in Austria. Salzburg has a lot of white buildings with fancy rooves.

She makes JJ take pictures of her, schools him in the correct framing. He takes tens of them, walking closer until she ends up with a shot up her nostrils. Then he holds her phone out of her reach and makes her jump for it, still taking pictures. Kiara eventually hangs off his bicep, snatches the phone from his grasp. He complains about posing for pictures of himself, glares balefully into the camera. Takes selfies when she’s not expecting it.

They miss their train to Berlin.

JJ leaves his packing until last minute, as always. Kiara has made peace with that. Refuses to help because she is not subscribing to being a care-giver role just because she possesses a vagina.

He is packed, but he’s scrambling around, pulling sheets off the mattress of his bunk.

“You seen my ring?” he asks, as she stands waiting, arms crossed and backpack at her feet. “Plain silver band.”

“We’ve gotta go – should have left like ten minutes ago. Hurry _up._ ”

He’s shining his phone’s torch under the bed, squinting to see. Kiara resists the urge to literally kick him up the ass. Checks her phone. The station’s apparently a ten-minute car ride away, and their train leaves in twenty minutes.

“We can buy you another one, for fucks _sake._ ”

Another two minutes pass. Her phone buzzes with a text from the Uber driver, saying he’s left. Kiara checks the app quickly but there aren’t many drivers available in the area.

“JJ,” she grits out from between her teeth. He doesn’t reply, now moved to check his locker.

When it ticks to under fifteen minutes until their train departs, she gives up. Snaps, “fucking hell JJ, all you have to do is pack. I book the tickets and the places to stay and you can’t even fucking do that? Jesus Christ. What’s the fucking point of you being here?”

Then she kicks her backpack for good measure and slams out the room. Walks around the block for forty minutes until it starts raining lightly.

JJ’s smoking under the canopy outside when she gets back. He watches her approaching with a blank look.

“I’ve booked another night, and tickets for tomorrow morning,” he says, and she thinks his tone is mildly defensive. It doesn’t absolve him. Kiara’s still glowering at him, jaw tight. After a beat of silence he adds, “it’s my mom’s wedding ring,” and he’s looking at the cigarette, not her.

“Oh,” she deflates slightly. But still. “Can you just try to be a little more organised?” He still doesn’t look at her, but she takes his silence as confirmation. They stand in silence for a minute, Kiara hugging herself for warmth in the cool, misted air. “Did you find it?”

“Not yet.”

“I bet it’s in a random pocket.”

It is. He systematically unpacks every item of clothing and checks each pocket until he finds it. Slides it back onto his pinkie, twists it once it lies below the knuckle.

His chin rests on her head when he hugs her, arms banded tightly around her shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all i can say is if they insult your home town or country i am sorry
> 
> to everyone who's enjoying this fic, thank you <3


	6. berlin - copenhagen - oslo - bergen.

*

JJ declares that Berlin is too modern.

Kiara says, “it’s probably older than most of the American cities combined, dumbass,” and pulls the hood of the jacket they’ve had to hastily purchase up over her hair. “It’s not their fault they got bombed almost flat. Well – maybe it is. Not the city’s and majority of the citizen’s fault, anyway.”

Their bunk bed had creaked when JJ left in the night, reappearing three hours later. He’d been the first one up in the morning, had gone and got breakfast and their usual collection of train snacks.

Her eyes are drawn to the hickey on his neck, just above the collar of his shirt.

“It’s just a different vibe,” he attempts again. He’s zipping up the parka, burying his chin into the collar of it. “Everywhere else has felt old, y’know?”

He buys her dinner and she wants to tell him he doesn’t have to try so hard. They’d been early for the train, hanging around in Munich train station until the platform was announced on the screen. Kiara had put in her earbuds and fallen asleep on his shoulder and he hadn’t even tried to accidentally jostle her awake for something to do.

They spend a disproportionate amount of time in supermarkets. Wandering up the aisles, basket in hand, marvelling at the way things are displayed compared to America. Squinting at packets to try to decipher the contents.

The icy politeness and sudden reasonableness from JJ is unnerving. He doesn’t try to slip anything that’s not been pre-approved into the basket. Reaches and grabs things from higher shelves without making a quip about her height. Pulls out his card at the checkout and doesn’t jibe her about him being a sugar daddy.

JJ smiles at the checkout girl, says _danke_. The rain is heavy outside, as they stand in the space between the two sliding doors.

“There’s a museum near here,” Kiara starts. “I think I’m going to go.”

“Okay.” There’s a long pause. Kiara wonders whether he’s waiting for her to bully him into going, as usual. She wants him to say _fine, only if you buy me a drink afterwards_ or _I hope their exhibitions are violent_ or _only if you let me choose where to go for dinner and not complain if it’s pizza_.

He doesn’t. She doesn’t. They go their separate ways.

In the museum she keeps turning to make a comment, keeps going to read out a particularly interesting fact on the display because he struggles with small writing but would never admit it. Almost asks for two entry tickets.

When she gets back to the hostel, he’s not there.

She makes herself a salad for dinner with things they bought from the supermarket. They’re stacked in the communal fridge, still in the grocery bag.

A girl strikes up conversation with her whilst she’s dicing cucumber. Her name’s Nora and she’s from Norway. Speaks an embarrassing amount of perfect English, accent light around the words. Kiara’s envious of her jawline and flinty cheekbones.

“A few of us are going for drinks tonight,” Nora says, flicking blonde hair over her shoulder. “Would you like to come?”

Nora has an equally as attractive and Nordic looking friend called Leah, who smiles thinly. They’ve collected a couple from Australia who push at each other’s shoulders, and sit on each other’s knees.

JJ walks past the door, the hood and shoulders of his jacket damp, earbuds in and phone aloft as he talks. She sees him looking into the common room briefly, clocking her presence. She’s been dealt a hand of cards and is being explained the rules of a drinking game called Ring of Fire.

Kiara has to retrieve her jacket from the dormitory. Nora’s in the same, chats idly as she starts rooting through her backpack for her going out purse.

JJ’s sat with his back against the bunk, still Facetiming someone. He looks over as she walks towards him. Kiara is suddenly very aware of everything. Of the way she’s not exactly sober (she’d lost twice in a row at the game), the toe of her converse scuffing the floor.

“We’re going out,” she tells him, although that fact is obvious. JJ’s gaze flicks over her, over the shirt she’s unbuttoned down to her crop top. The shorts. “You coming?”

He holds his phone up, but he hasn’t tilted the screen to her. “John B,” he explains. His eyes flicker to the screen briefly. “He says hi,” he relays dutifully.

“Hi, John B.” Usually she might cram into the bunk next to him, steal an earbud and bombard John B with questions. Insist that he puts Sarah on the line. Instead she says, “have fun. I’ll see you later.”

He’s already raised the phone again, looked away. “Yeah. You too.”

Kiara goes to three bars with her newfound friends. She thinks Leah is trying to gauge her. She says “oh, she’s hot,” about a bartender and keeps her eyes on Kiara.

“Yeah,” Kiara agrees. There’s also a blonde haired blue eyed guy, who grins cheekily. “He’s hotter, though.”

They have six different drinks across the various bars, and then she dances for a while. Leah’s given up any pretence of advances and is making out with another girl against the wall. Kiara turns to find Nora to dance with, but the girl’s gone. She goes to hunt her down. Checks the bathroom. Stares at herself in the mirror. Her eyes are glassy, her lips turned down.

She calls Pope when she walks home. The rain has lightened to a drizzle, cold against her bare legs. He picks up instantly.

“Pope! How you doing?”

He sounds pleased to hear from her. Talks idly about his day. He’s getting ready to go to a frat party – he’s joined the sailing team or something, is on his way to making friends.

“Once you’ve been friends with JJ, other people are a lot easier,” he comments wryly. He seems to remember the blonde then. “Is JJ there now?”

“Oh he’s, uh, out.”

Pope accepts it. He talks through the merits of his shirts – should he go for the navy button down, or the red. Kiara tells him to pull out the mustard cord shirt she knows he’s acquired from John B. It’s familiar and easy and she’s struck with a flash of loneliness so intense that it takes her breath away. He’s put her on speaker phone, his voice getting fainter then louder as he moves around his room.

A car comes past, tyres swishing on the road’s damp surface. “Are you outside?” Pope asks, and she can almost hear his frown.

“Just walking back to the hostel.”

“Alone? At like… one in the morning?”

“Pope,” she warns. Over the years, she’s tried to train the boys out of the macho displays. The protectiveness over perceived dangers.

“I know,” but he carries on anyway. “It’s just late and dark and you just shouldn’t be alone. Where’s JJ?”

“At the hostel. Besides, I’m on the phone to you, so if someone does kidnap me, I’ll scream out a description and they can use my phone signal to determine my last known location.”

“Kie,” his tone is not remotely amused. “I don’t even think JJ would let you walk back in a strange place by yourself. And I don’t think you’re sober.”

“Let? _Let_? What am I, the communal pet? There’s no _letting_. I do what the fuck I want, and I’m completely fine.”

“Mhm,” he hums disbelievingly. Doesn’t let the subject drop, because he’s the worst combination of being both stubborn as a mule and a catastrophiser. “Where’s JJ?”

“Oh, my God. You’re all so fucking _obsessed._ At the hostel, maybe. I don’t know. Being an annoying asshole somewhere that isn’t here. I can look after myself. And I’m home now, so goodbye.”

She marches the remaining three blocks in a fury, muttering under her breath. Water splashes from the sidewalk onto her calves, and she can almost feel her hair frizzing under her hood in the rain. Then she stands on the wrong paving slab just outside the hostel, her foot disappearing into a hidden pool of water. It soaks through her converse, through her sock, chilling her toes.

“Fuck you,” she whispers fervently, giving the slab the finger for good measure.

She exhales some of the fury once she’s inside, tugging her hood down. Makes her steps lighter to avoid disturbing anyone.

Someone walks to the door of the communal area as she passes. Leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Kie,” JJ says, and he’s got one eyebrow raised. Kiara skids to a stop in the hallway, frowns at him. He’s wearing John B’s track pants, a worn grey sweatshirt and socks. His hair’s flat at the back as though he has been asleep at some point this evening. Kiara waits. “Pope rang. He was worried about you. Apparently, you walked back alone. He was going on and on about assaults and muggings – had already Googled the statistics. Thirty percent chance, he calculated.”

Of course he rang. Kiara scoffs and makes a mental note to have strong words. Starts to rehearse the call in her head.

“Well, here I am,” she spreads her hands. “Alive. Unassaulted. Contrary to popular opinion, I am not a walking victim because of my gender.”

JJ shrugs, looks away. And that riles her up further. Because usually JJ would be making some quip about Pope and how wound tight he is. Usually he’d be bouncing towards her, feinting a punch to her left side to show how invulnerable she is. JJ may have even told Pope to fuck off, in a distant life, and never mentioned this conversation to Kiara at all.

Not now.

Now she marches towards him, stands toe to toe. Snarls, “what the fuck is your problem? Is this because I had the audacity to ask you to _pack_ and not make us miss our train?”

He’s gone tense, like he always does when someone invades his personal space without his permission.

“Problem? There’s no problem. Do you have a problem?” his voice is sugar sweet and innocent.

“Yes, problem,” she pushes at his chest, and he looks down at her hand. “You’ve been acting weird all day. And this,” she presses her thumb into the hickey on his neck, an indent in his skin.

He lifts a hand to her wrist, moves her thumb away. Doesn’t drop her hand. “Why, you jealous, Kie?”

She’s drunk and it makes her bold. Makes her curl her fingertips into the cord of the shark’s tooth necklace he wears. Makes her tug at it. He’s pliant, bending towards her until they’re almost forehead to forehead. She can feel his soft breath on her chin. Can see his eyes, looking at her lips.

“In your dreams, Maybank,” she says coldly, and then releases him and pushes at his chest. He steps back obediently, looks at her.

“You probably shouldn’t go out walking alone at night drunk,” he berates, and steps out the way as she tries to kick him in the knees. “Neither of us should.” It’s mostly tacked on at the end as an appeasement, and she’s annoyed at herself that it semi works. “You can afford to pay people to drive you around now – make the most of it.”

“Whatever. I’m going to bed.”

“You should eat something, to soak up the alcohol,” he suggests. Kie flips him off over her shoulder.

Her shoes squelch as she walks down the hall so she toes them off before creeping into the dormitory. Collects her washbag and dry pyjamas from her bag.

She gets changed and pees in one of the bathroom cubicles. JJ knocks on the door and asks for toothpaste, so she lets him in. They squabble over the tube – Kiara stamps on his foot, he elbows her in the ribs. She gets an arm around his neck and gives him a noogie until he calls, “mercy! Mercy! Christ, woman,” in a strangled voice, breathing heavier.

Kiara releases him and he makes the most of the pause to snatch the toothpaste from her hand.

“We good?” he asks, just before she pushes the door to the dormitory open. Kiara looks over her shoulder to him. His face is thrown into shadow, the night lighting of the corridor dim. He looks young and anxious.

“Yeah. We’re good, Maybank.”

His teeth flash white in the gloom.

The next day it’s just gloomy and cold rather than raining. There’s a bottle of full sugar coke on her bunk, which is her favourite hangover cure.

Kiara signs them up for a walking tour which takes four hours. They see the Berlin wall; go through key dates in the Nazi Germany regime, standing precisely where they were undertaken. Where the books were burnt in the square.

The tour takes them to the Holocaust memorial, walking slowly and silently through the vast grey blocks.

They break for lunch, and JJ chats to the tour guide without stopping. He’s a German local, studying English at college and doing tours for extra money. He answers all of JJ’s questions, even the weird ones about bombs and artillery. There’s even one about women’s roles in the war, although Kiara thinks he glances briefly at her to check she’s still listening when he asks it.

“I wish history at school had been like this,” JJ stands up so they can re-join the rest of the group. “Maybe I would have actually learnt something. I swear I’ve learnt more since we started this thing than I ever did at school.”

“The American education system is often criticised for being too American centric,” she tells him, so he doesn’t feel inadequate or whatever he is feeling. “It’s not that you didn’t hear this stuff. You were probably never taught it.”

“ _Everyone’s_ heard of Nazis, Kie,” he flicks at her ear. “It’s just weird to be in the place where it all happened. Makes it realer. I don’t know,” she’s looking at him, and he looks away, something akin to bashfulness curling around his cheeks. “It’s dumb.”

“No,” she says, and she grabs his hand and squeezes it briefly. “I feel the same. Until now it’s just been a concept, something you read about in books. But being here, seeing the buildings where real people lived. The wall. All the stories from people’s memoirs, the memorials. It brings it all home. Like Anne Frank’s museum.”

JJ smiles, like he’s pleased to be understood. “Exactly.”

They spend a week in Berlin until JJ has had enough and books tickets to Hamburg for a night, and then onto Copenhagen.

She finds out he’s only arranged the stopover because he wants to try and find the perfect burger. Makes her walk for forty minutes across town until they find the highest rated diner.

It gets colder the further North they go. Which is logical and unsurprising, but the cooler air still catches in her lungs when they file off the train. JJ still insists on wearing shorts most days, despite the temperature hovering on or around freezing.

“It’s _November_ , JJ,” she scolds. “Put some damn pants on.”

“I like the breeze around my knees,” he informs her. “Don’t be a prude. Let’s not pretend you don’t enjoy a flash of thigh.” He pulls the fabric further up his leg to prove the point. He bundles clothes on his upper body – sweatshirts, a thick parka. Resolutely sticks to his familiar shorts and boots. Even when the sole starts peeling from the leather and starts letting in water.

There are only around seven daylight hours a day. It makes her lethargic and want to curl up in her pyjamas with a hot chocolate. There are colourful, picturesque houses everywhere.

There are outdoor ice rinks with free admission. They rent skates and step gingerly onto the ice. Kiara clings to the outer boards until she finds her feet and balance, then she starts skating slowly, the wall within grasp. JJ skates as he does everything else in life – with vigour. He takes long, sweeping strides. Falls on his ass three times, and his side once. Pulls Kiara from the sides, eyes wide.

“Trust me,” he says, and she does. Until he overbalances and pulls her down with him, surface water seeping through her jeans as she skids along on her side.

She shows him the bruises on her elbow and hip later on, pulling up her shirt. “Look what you’ve done,” she accuses, and he buys her a bar of chocolate the next day to say sorry.

JJ makes them go skating everyday, until they don’t fall over. Until Kiara feels comfortable being further than five feet away from the sides.

The dorms in hostels are quieter now. There’s no longer a fight for any kitchen facilities. Kiara makes pasta and stir fry, sick of eating out at restaurants. Makes JJ eat salads despite any protests.

“This is what my food eats,” he complains as he picks up a piece of carefully shredded lettuce, scowling at the green. “This is just crunchy water.”

Their clothes stop smelling of home, the familiar scent getting fainter each time they do laundry. They have to do mundane activities like grocery shopping. Kiara tracks everything she spends in a specialised app. JJ seems to be flying by the seat of his pants, which is unnerving but unsurprising.

She sends him to the supermarket to buy tampons whilst she’s on Facetime to Pope.

“Super jumbo, was it?” he asks innocently as he pulls on his boots. Ducks out of reflex as she launches a sock missile towards his head. “Any pads?”

Pope hears the exchange, is staring from the screen. “Is JJ Maybank buying you tampons?” he asks in disbelief, once he’s left the room.

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“I just didn’t think I’d see the day. I didn’t even know he knew what tampons are. Maybe conceptually.”

Kiara shrugs. They’d crossed the period bridge pretty early on in their travels, when she’d had to urgently do some laundry due to starting unexpectedly whilst wearing her favourite underwear.

JJ comes back with tampons, pads and her favourite chocolate. And a packet of paprika chips, which he crunches obnoxiously loudly. Goes out with only a few complaints to pick up take out when she protests about changing out of her sweats and going out into the darkness.

He comes back, cheeks flushed red, clutching the take out bag.

“Extra pickles?” she asks hopefully, taking the pro-offered cardboard box.

JJ sighs. “Of course. Who do you take me for? I like my balls intact, thanks.”

They share fries, knuckles brushing in the paper bag. An episode of Bojack Horseman plays on Kiara’s phone, because JJ’s screen is shattered. She looks sideways at him, as he huffs a laugh through his nose and shoves an inordinate amount of fries into his mouth.

He looks back at her. Grunts “what?” and she sees the potato mush in his mouth. The crease between his brow. The silver scar that dissects one eyebrow. She thinks _oh._

“You have ketchup on your chin,” she says brightly. JJ scowls, scrubs the back of his hand across his face.

They go to outdoor hot tubs, which makes JJ laugh. When they bring their hands above the water’s surface steam curls into the air. The tubs overlook the harbour, gentle chatter rising around them as Kiara sheds her robe and slides into the water. It’s the perfect temperature to offset the air’s chill.

“Rich people have too much money,” JJ decides, splashing a hand across the water.

There’s also a cold tub, filled with ice. JJ dares Kiara to get in. She dips one foot in and then almost falls over with the speed of her recoil.

“Absolutely fucking not,” she declares, jumping down the steps before JJ can get any ideas.

JJ jumps in, water spilling over the sides. It cascades over Kiara’s feet and that’s enough. JJ surfaces spluttering, gasping. “Fuck fuck fuck,” he chants, and levers himself out of the water. Throws the robe over his head and shoulders, cuddling into the warmth.

They have warm showers before they get dressed. Go to local castles. Kronberg has a Christmas market hidden in the centre square. When it goes dark, it’s entirely lit by candles and strung Christmas lights.

They stop at Gothenburg on the way to Oslo.

There are American sections in some grocery stores. Everything is so much more expensive in Norway. Her head turns towards any familiar American accent. Sometimes she sees something and it makes her think of her mom or her dad; of Pope or John B. She doesn’t think much of it until Thanksgiving rolls around. As an American centric holiday, there isn’t any focus on it in Europe.

“It’s Thanksgiving tomorrow,” Kiara points out, pausing in their game of throwing weird gummy sweets into JJ’s open mouth. She throws another one. It misses, landing on his forehead.

“And?”

“We should do something.”

They find an Irish bar in town, because that’s the only place they can think of which will have a guaranteed American clientele. Their deductions are correct. The accents hit them as soon as they walk through the door.

The barman informs them that they’re hosting a Thanksgiving meal the next day, and they’re in luck, because a couple have just pulled out. He pencils their name in a paper diary.

They have two drinks each, then go back to the hostel. They’re the only ones in the dorm for six people. JJ complains that her thrashing in her sleep makes their bunk wobble and gives him motion sickness. Kiara tells him to move to another bed, but hopes he doesn’t. There’s something reassuring about the gentle rock whenever he turns over in his sleep. Something human.

They bundle up with scarves and jackets and go to the Thanksgiving meal. All the square tables have been pushed together to form long, continuous ones. They’re sat opposite a guy from North Carolina and they hi-five over the table. The air’s loud with people reminiscing about home and America. Someone yells “to the European drinking age!” and everyone cheers.

The turkey is dry and there’s not enough gravy but it tastes a little like home.

Kiara pulls out her phone and makes a note of what everyone tells her. Some recommends the lakes in Croatia. A girl enthuses _you’ve got to try Pai in Thailand_ and Kiara writes each and every point down.

There’s pumpkin pie for dessert, which is under sweetened. The pastry’s tough. She likes being around people with familiar accents and being able to just talk to them without the inevitable language barrier.

They walk back via the main square and the Christmas markets. Buy a mulled wine, despite all of JJ’s protests about it being fundamentally wrong. _Alcohol should not be warm, Kie. You’re compromising the strength._

When they get back to the hostel, there are three Americans watching American Pie on the small screen of a laptop in the communal area. They make room for them, and Kiara sits on the couch. JJ throws himself on the floor and leans against her knees. He fidgets, pulling out his phone, but then she tangles her hands in his hair, pulling her fingers through the locks, and he goes still. The strands are slowly darkening from the white blonde the tips go in the summer to a darker, more golden colour

Her parents Facetime her, their faces squished into the screen. She can see up their nostrils and her mom shouts unreasonably loudly. Her dad takes the phone from her when she tears up, shows her a panorama of all the pans he has on the go.

“Extra rosemary and garlic on the potatoes, just as you like it.”

She hangs up, feels a tear track down her cheek. JJ’s quiet, like he often goes when she Facetimes her family with him around. Pope had spoken to him earlier, and Heyward had thrown a, “hope you’re doing well, kid,” at the screen. JJ had blinked owlishly before cracking the Maybank smirk.

“Oh, you know me. Kie’s keeping me in line.”

But now the dormitory’s empty and she’s thousands of miles from home, where they’re eating potatoes just how she likes them. There’s silence, and Kiara swipes away each tear as it falls. Bites her tongue to try and stem the flow.

JJ holds one arm out and she crawls to him, burying her face into his shoulder. The sweatshirt’s soft beneath her cheek.

“My mom preferred Christmas.” His voice is distant, detached. “Dad preferred Thanksgiving. We had turkey at both, but Christmas was the best one.”

It’s times like this when she never knows whether to press of wait. It’s like she’s in the world’s longest game of cat and mouse. She has to navigate his emotions slowly, carefully, not scare them back into hiding.

She keeps her cheek pressed to his sweatshirt. He has one arm loosely wrapped around her, but he’s twisting the plain wedding band around his pinkie.

“Christmas was always better, because of the presents. And everyone got presents, so that’s automatically better than birthdays. Less pressure.”

There’s silence and he’s retreated into his own head. She leaves him there for a while. Then prompts him gently. “What about now? Thanksgiving or Christmas?”

“Ask me again when I’ve had a good one of each.”

She pulls away from him. Tears are still tracking down her face, silent. She says, “JJ,” and it’s broken and trembling, soft and raw.

“It’s okay,” he brushes away the tears from under her eyes with the pad of his thumb. “No emotions, remember?”

She thinks he is the opposite – far too many emotions. He’s pride and loyalty and fight, anger and comfort and want. He’s optimism for everything in life, but pessimism for himself. He has a thousand reasons not to trust anyone ever again, but he follows her around the world anyway.

He exhales when she kisses him. His lips are chapped, because he chews on them when he’s trying to read a long passage. His skin is warm, heat radiating from his sweatshirt. The angle’s slightly awkward, her to one side, her neck craned.

It’s him who cuts it short.

He says, “no Pogue on Pogue macking, right?”

“JJ,” she says, exasperated. “I’ve macked Pope _and_ John B.”

His grin is crooked and small. “I always reckoned that rule was designed just for me. The JJ clause.”

“You’re saying what, exactly? That the rule was made to keep you away?”

“Maybe so you could attempt to resist me. We all know I am the best Pogue.”

She snorts and it should break the mood. She should be retreating from this scenario. Kiara wonders whether he’s realised he’s giving her an out. Whether she’s misread the looks he gives her, when he thinks she isn’t looking. His eyes flicking over her bare legs when she’s in a towel. The way he reaches out automatically to steady her whilst jumping down off a high train. How he takes the weight of her backpack so she can step out from it. How there’s always a full fat coke somewhere on his person for when she needs a sugar boost.

She kisses him again. Slower this time, so he can escape if he wants to. The relief is hot and heady as he kisses back. She can feel the metal of the rings he wears, cool against her cheek. Her tongue touches his lower lip and now she’s sighing into his mouth, humming.

Her lips are cold and damp when he pulls away. He moves his hand from her cheek to her shoulder. Stands up from the bed. Kiara falls against the headboard, watches him warily. His sweatshirt rides up as he stretches his arms above his head. She stares at the exposed skin and he smirks as he catches her.

“I don’t fancy a pity fuck, thanks.” He runs a thumb across his lower lip, then pulls the packet of cigarettes from his pocket. “Smoke?”

“I never said anything about a fuck,” she tells him petulantly, although she’d definitely thought it. Gets up and follows him outside.

She is overcome with the urge to push him against the wall. Tug him down by his hair or his sweatshirt. Insist that this is definitely not pity.

Instead, she listens to him rating every element of the Thanksgiving meal. Gasps in outrage as he rates the turkey a seven.

“Bullshit,” she snaps, “it was drier than Gandhi’s flip flop. It was a four, at best. And that’s just because it was cut nicely.”

“Yeah, but you’re a food snob. _Ooo, this is underseasoned. Oh this could do with a touch of parsley. Oh, I’m not sure the salmon complements the potato._ ”

Kiara swats at his shoulder, outraged. The cigarette is a rare indulgence, but she’s soothed by the routine. “I am not a snob. I just have standards.”

“Mm, course you do.” He can’t pass up an opportunity, when presented. Says, “I don’t think much of your standards, if you’re trying to mack with me.”

It’s such a JJ comment – self-deprecating, but wryly amusing. She doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even smile.

“I’d do it again.”

He squints at her, through his exhaled cloud of smoke. Looks to his cigarette, then stubs it out in the provided plant pot. “Watch out, or I’ll hold you to that.”

“Everyone else gets some, thought I’d try it out.” It’s an attempt at humour, or to try and claw back some semblance of pride. She’s not precisely sure which. It’s also the wrong thing to say, because JJ’s eyes are no longer soft.

“Right,” he says, and he smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m sorry you miss your parents.”

It’s said as gently as JJ could ever be. But she thinks it’s intentional. And it works. Makes her reel back, her thoughts jumping to Outer Banks. To her dad’s turkey and her mom’s best pumpkin pie.

His hand brushes her shoulder as he passes, snagging on the fabric of her hoodie. “Let’s go sleep.”

He leaves at some point in the night, faltering for half a step at the bottom of the ladder. Kiara keeps her eyes closed. When he comes back, the smell of smoke and something floral drifts past her.

John B rings her the next day and her heart skips a beat, stomach tight. She wonders whether JJ’s messaged him, or rung him. She almost declines the call, but answers it on the second to last ring.

“Yo John B,” she greets, keeping her tone relaxed. JJ’s off doing JJ things – maybe buying cigarettes, or going for a run like he sometimes does.

“Yo,” it’s quieter than usual. He pauses, which he doesn’t do. There’s no story or anecdote poised for him to dive head first into.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, all good.”

“Sarah?”

“Mm, yeah. Good too.”

“And how’s college life? Californian weed any better?”

He’s quiet and it unnerves her. She has to glance at the phone to make sure the line’s still connected. “Where are you now? Sweden?”

“Norway. Everyone’s intimidatingly attractive, and it’s ridiculously expensive. The price you pay for a solid state system. Did you know they can take two years maternity leave at eighty percent pay in most companies? Imagine.”

“You got something to tell me?”

“Hah, hah.”

“Where you gonna be for Christmas?”

They’ve not discussed it, but her parents have asked. She knows why they’ve asked and the thought of inviting them out to join her and JJ makes her feel panicked and cornered. Her parents have always disapproved of JJ the most, out of all of her friends. At least Pope did well at school and vaguely respected his parents. John B had an endearing charm that made you want to like him. But JJ was crass and loud and trouble.

“Not sure yet,” she presses one hand to her knees, tries to predict how this conversation is going to pan out. John B’s breathing is soft down the line, like he’s hunched over, mouth pressed to the microphone.

“Could you maybe let me know when you do? I’ll be on break. Could be nice to come see what your adventure’s all about.”

Her heart goes tight in her chest. Because there’s no one at home at Christmas for John B. No Big John. Kiara’s not entirely sure how the foster system works now they’re all eighteen, but she knows John B does not consider himself the Heyward’s ward.

“What about Sarah?”

There’s another silence. “I’m not precisely her aunt’s favourite person,” he admits.

“Sorry, John B.”

“Not your fault. Just how it is. So, let me know?”

“Of course. You told JJ?”

“In a roundabout way. You know him – probably wasn’t listening.”

JJ comes sauntering in some time later, hair wet from a shower. They haven’t mentioned last night and Kiara doesn’t think they’re going to. It makes her feel relieved but also strangely frustrated.

She kicks at his legs as he climbs halfway up the ladder, scrabbling for something from his bed. “John B’s coming out at Christmas,” she tells him.

JJ pauses, then continues doing whatever he’s doing. “Thought he might. Sarah?”

“No, she’s staying with her family.”

He jumps down, looks at her. “We should probably invite Pope, so he doesn’t get butthurt.”

“Yeah, probably.” There’s silence and she doesn’t know whether JJ can predict the next logical step. Family isn’t something JJ’s well-versed in. She says, “my parents…” and it trails off uncertainty, hesitantly.

“Oh,” he says, and he’s moving to his locker, unlocking the metal door. “Yeah. Maybe get a house somewhere?” He pauses, considers. “Might be easier to just go home.”

“No,” it’s loud and final, decisive. “We can invite them all here, see what they say. At least we’ve asked.”

“As long as they don’t stop us drinking, should be good.” It sounds like an olive branch, a truce. His shoulders are tense with the mention of authority figures.

They extend the invitations. Her parents are overjoyed, as though they’ve been waiting for the moment. They start working out schedules and the best times to fly out. Ask where they’re going to be. They’re on loud speaker and JJ’s kicking a bundled pair of socks around like a soccer ball, pretending he’s not listening. Kiara says they’ve not decided yet, but will let them know.

Pope says yes immediately, then corrects himself and says he’ll check with his parents. He’s still with them, as it’s Thanksgiving weekend. He comes back on the line and is hesitant, until Kiara says, “oh, invite them as well. Christmas vacation!” and JJ kicks the pair of socks right at her face, so they hit her nose.

Pope tells her to _leave it with him_ and the authority in his tone makes her laugh at him.

He says yes the next day, says he’ll come for the entire Christmas break and his parents for a week over Christmas. Kiara’s parents say they’ll come for the same week.

_The Pogues (plus Sarah)_

**Kie [3:45]:** Any preferences on location?

 **Kie [3:46]:** Norway? Sweden? Denmark? Germany?

 **Pope [3:47]:** I’ve always wanted to go to Rome.

 **John B [3:48]:** Fuck yeh, pizza

 **Kie [3:49]:** We’re MILES away from Italy

 **John B [3:50]:** And????

 **JJ [3:50]:** he makes a good point

 **Pope [3:50:** Pasta. I rest my case.

 **John B [3:51]:** This is going to be so good

 **John B [3:52]:** Christmas, Pogue style

 **Pope [3:53]:** Please no one smoke weed around my parents.

 **Kie [3:54]:** Please no one hit on my mom

 **JJ [3:55]:** i can’t promise anything i’m afraid

 **John B [3:56]:** Wait does this mean @Kie and @Pope your parents will be cooking?? Please say yes

 **Kie [3:57]:** Idk probably

 **Kie [3:57]:** Are they even going to get on?

 **Pope [3:58]:** Oh God.

 **JJ [3:59]:** omg don’t give pope anxiety two weeks in advance

 **JJ [4:00]:** congrats now he won’t have a solid shit between now and christmas

 **JJ [4:00]:** hope your happy kie

There’s not much availability for houses with the exact specification JJ keeps changing. Eventually they settle on a Villa with an indoor pool and a terrace with views over a vineyard. Kiara spends ten minutes squinting at the pictures of the kitchen to ensure they will have sufficient facilities.

They travel to Bergen for a week. Go on an all-electric zero emission boat tour of the local fjords. The body of water is framed by the snow dusted mountains, the engine near silent as they move. Kiara takes a picture of JJ at the front of the boat, staring up at the nearest mountain. The water is crystal clear, reflecting back the mountains.

The captain takes a picture of the pair of them looking at the mountains. JJ’s pointing towards the top, their faces in profile.

She posts it to Instagram, and Hannah from Cornwall comments _god, you two are such a model standard couple_. It makes Kiara’s stomach flip as she presses like.

They hire snow shoes and stomp through the crisp snow. It makes JJ laugh, the snowflakes settling on his eyelashes. Of course, he bundles the powder into balls and pelts them at her face, her back, even her head. It knocks her beanie hat into the snow.

He has a grudge against gloves, presses his icy cold fingers under her scarf.

Kiara buys traditional knitted gloves and hats from the wooden fronted stores. JJ pours over tiny toys made from reindeer antlers. Wooden spoons, meticulously carved.

The train between Oslo and Bergen is renowned for being beautiful, apparently. She falls asleep for some of it, but JJ shakes her awake because she loves to look at views. The train zips through Norwegian countryside; through mountain ranges. The snow smooths all the imperfections, makes it look so serene.

Kiara resolutely refuses to fly. Which leaves the most cost efficient and environmentally friendly route from Norway to Rome being a ferry and then four trains. The ferry is large, mostly filled with freight drivers. They can wander around the decks, but also have a berth with narrow beds to sleep on.

The trains are the worst. The first is nearly nine hours long. JJ is restless, bouncing a knee, his shoulders. Pushes Kiara off when she falls asleep on his shoulder. Kiara confiscates his lighter when he pulls it out to occupy himself. Eventually Kiara hands him thread’s she’s bought, because one of JJ’s bracelets had eventually frayed and come apart on his wrist. He’d made her promise she’d make him a new one.

Kiara teaches him how to make them, hands overlapping as they pull the threads tightly together. She falls asleep on his shoulder again, and he doesn’t push her off this time. When she wakes up he’s almost completed his first bracelet. It’s rough and bumpy and full of stray threads, but she can tell he’s proud of himself.

Their first change is in Zurich train station at four in the afternoon. Kiara sits on a bench with their bags at her feet, sending JJ for supplies. He comes back having forgotten half the list of requests and instead settled for all of her favourites. Paprika chips, a multi-coloured salad in a box.

JJ finally falls asleep on the next train. It’s something Kiara’s only seen him do once before, so she takes a picture as a memento.

_Pogues (plus Sarah)_

**Kie [5:16]:** Someone can’t contain his excitement for the Pogue reunion

 **John B [5:21]:** ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

 **Sarah [5:23]:** can confirm there are heart eyes here rn

The middle train is only three and three quarters of an hour. JJ stretches out his legs and accidentally kicks his boot into her ankle. Kiara hisses in pain, snatches her legs away. He shoots her an apologetic glance, but she’s travel weary and tired and penned in.

“Watch it,” she snaps instead. JJ raises an eyebrow at her.

She can’t get comfortable in the seat. Keeps shifting, taking her shoes and folding her legs. Uncrossing them. Leaning to the left. Then to the right. She huffs in annoyance.

JJ snaps up the armrest between them, slings an arm across her shoulders and pulls her to lean against him. Hands her one earbud, and angles his screen so she can see it. He’s moved onto Bob’s Burgers recently, the episodes just short enough to capture his attention.

His thumb sweeps across her shoulder, light against the fabric.

She wakes up, too hot and too cold all at once. Pulls away from JJ. It disturbs him, and he looks sleepily at her. “I fucking hate trains,” she scowls, pulling down her sweatshirt where it’s ridden up at the back.

“We’re almost at Milan,” JJ points towards the electronic sign which states the next destination. “Then it’s just the two hour wait, and another four hour train. Plus, we could have been there in like three hours if we’d flown but _no_ , Mrs Save the Turtles had other ideas.”

She pouts, folds her arms in her seat. “It’s Ms, to you,” she grumbles petulantly. JJ retrieves the threads for the friendship bracelets from the pocket in the seat in front, hands one to her. Then a full sugar coke from the bag of groceries. JJ’s threads are basically a plait, whereas Kiara branches out into fancier patterns. Adding layers and twists of colours. JJ scowls at her efforts.

“You’re just showing off now,” he complains, then demands she teach him the better techniques. After JJ gets bored of the bracelets, they play cards. He wins at Bullshit, as always.

He braids her hair where he can reach it. Tiny, messy little braids, that are more knots of hair than anything else.

Milan train station is cold and mostly empty. They have to wait three hours for their next train, after a delay of an hour. When the delay flashes onto the screen Kiara feels like screaming. All the stores and platform kiosks have their shutters down.

They heave their bags outside and smoke two cigarettes each. Kiara’s too tired to even form words. They wait for forty five minutes in a cold and empty waiting room, Kiara lying across the metal bench, her backpack a pillow. No matter how she lies the metal digs into her skin.

The next train arrives at Rome’s station at two in the morning. JJ’s already Googled hotels with a twenty-four-hour reception, and they take a taxi from the rank outside the station. The lobby of the reception is too bright, and the receptionist too chirpy as she checks them in and hands over their key card. JJ pays extra for a delayed checkout.

She follows him to the elevator. Shrugs off her backpack and leans against the cool side. It takes two attempts to get into the room with the keycard. JJ flicks the heating on, throws his bag onto one of the beds.

Kiara pulls her shoes off, climbs into the nearest bed, and finally, finally sleeps properly.

JJ’s still asleep when she wakes up. He’s got a hand fisted in the covers, is curled into a semi-circle. One foot pokes out. Kiara pulls the covers over it.

She gets breakfast and a few supplies for lunch from the house. Adds a bottle of red wine and some beers to the collection. Carries it all back to the hotel room, bag handles digging into the flesh of her hands.

JJ’s showering when she gets back, comes out with the towel slung low around his hips and toothbrush in his mouth. Grunts vaguely at her.

She might stare a little at his ass as he walks past her. She might revel in the warmth radiating from his skin. She might want to run her hand down his spine.

Instead she shouts “stop using my shampoo! That shit’s expensive!” because the bottle’s missing from her washbag.

Maybe she accidentally forgets her top and comes out of the bathroom in just navy harem pants and her favourite bralette, droplets of water from her hair tracking over her shoulders. JJ looks up from his phone briefly, then does a double take.

Maybe she runs the hair product through her hair before she puts her t-shirt on, bending over and running the product from root to tip with her fingers. But that’s just practical. No sense in making her shirt damp.

She thinks his cheeks are tinged pink, right along his cheekbones. He’s looked away, staring resolutely at his phone. Neither his thumb nor his eyes are moving.

They pull on their backpacks once more and trek the mile to the bus station. When they get there, there are no buses. There’s a handwritten sign on the window of the ticket booth. When she uses Google Translate, it roughly informs them that there’s a strike by the drivers for an undetermined amount of time.

With growing frustration, Kiara throws her bag onto the floor and herself into a seat. Frantically Googles alternative routes to the house. Realises that everyone else is arriving in two days time, and that there may be reduced public transport service over the Christmas period, even if they stop striking.

“Fucking unions,” she growls.

“We could rent a car,” JJ proposes from where he’s languidly reclining on the plastic bench next to her.

Kiara frowns. Gets ready to retort, out of habit. Takes a breath and thinks the proposition over.

“Only if it’s a hybrid,” she relents finally, and JJ grins at her.

They look up local car rentals and find the best reviewed one. Have to pay extra because they’re under twenty-one. Besides that, Kiara hands over her US licence and the money, and then they’re on their way.

“That felt suspiciously easy,” she mutters, as they walk away from the desk with the keys to a Nissan Leaf. All the cars in Europe are smaller than those in America.

Everyone’s also apparently an asshole driver. Stop signs seem to be more suggestions than anything else. Kiara’s driving experience is mostly based around the quiet roads of the Outer Banks, where you’re likely to know the driver in front. Horns blare all around her if she dares hesitate at any lights, or doesn’t pull out immediately next to a stop sign.

She also hasn’t driven in four months, can’t get used to using gears again. Keeps stalling.

“Fuck,” says JJ, which means it must be really bad.

“That wasn’t me,” she grits out defensively. “That asshole pulled out on me!”

He snatches the wheel at one point, straightening their trajectory. Kiara’s too busy trying to eyeball a guy who looks like he’s about to pull out on her. Cars swerve everywhere, never once using their blinkers. Kiara’s fingers clutch the steering wheel. She can’t take her eyes off the road to check the navigation without fearing crashing.

It’s definitely not the ideal time to discover that JJ apparently doesn’t reliably know his right and lefts.

“Oh no, the other way,” he says, as she manoeuvres across the right lane of traffic.

“You said right!”

“Yeah, the other right!”

“There’s only one right! It’s left, or right!”

She has to drive for five minutes before she finds a suitable place to pull over to turn around, crossing back across the lane of traffic. Someone still blares their horn at her, and she’s tempted to wind down the window and flip them off. Instead she lets JJ do it in the rear-view mirror. Their responding toot is petulant.

“I’ve never been on a freeway before,” she muses, as three cars overtake and shoot her dirty looks.

“What, really? But you’re a natural,” JJ deadpans.

It takes an hour to do the supposedly thirty-minute drive. JJ reverts to pointing which way she’s supposed to turn. They breath out simultaneously as they roll slowly up the driveway to their villa.

“I’m surprised we’re alive,” JJ comments cheerfully, and he’s throwing open his door and jumping out. Kiara tries to will her heartrate to return to normal.

“I’d like to see you do better. I hate Italians.” She joins him to pull their bags from the trunks. “Seriously – I saw like, a hundred of them running red lights. Like they’re just Christmas decorations or something.”

He looks at her, half smiling. The winter sun’s behind him and catches the edges of his hair, turning them gold.

“Come on,” he says, and he’s picking up her bag as well as his. “Let’s go smash Christmas.”

The key is apparently in a key safe to the left of the door. It still takes them five minutes to find it, both getting frustrated. Kiara finds it, flush to the doorframe and painted the same colour. It takes three goes of inputting the code before it clicks open, the key nestled within the pkastic.

The villa is large and they clatter through, examining each room The kitchen has two ovens, and JJ watches as she pulls open the doors and enthuses over them.

“Trust me,” she glares over her shoulder. “You’ll be thankful for these on the day.”

“Whatever you say, babe.”

It slips out, easy and nonchalant. Kiara tries not to let anything show on her face.

There’s a large living room, just off the kitchen. An orangery off that, filled with plants. The pool is an extension, accessed through a porch off the kitchen. The air smells of chlorine when the sliding door is pulled back. The cover’s off, steam rising in gentle, wavering tendrils.

“Dare you to jump in,” Kiara says, without thinking. JJ looks at her. Races to pull his shirt and shorts off, pulling them over his head and down his legs. His body makes a perfect arch as he dives, toes pointed.

He doesn’t surface for a minute. She can see him swimming below the surface, a dark shape in the blue. Then he comes up, gasping in a breath. “Double dare,” he taunts, but she’s already pulling off her top, shucking off her pants, shoes and socks. Pushes her phone out of harm’s way.

She cannonballs in, arms tight around her knees. Gasps as she hits the water and sinks, limbs instinctively uncurling. JJ’s at the opposite end of the pool, floating on his back. He turns his head as she swims over, moves to be vertical.

He’s treading water, limbs moving lazily. Watches her approaching as she takes her time doing so. She thinks he’s looking at her lips as she draws to a stop in front of him. Their arms brush as they paddle.

“Hi,” she says, and he definitely looks at her lips. Then at her eyes. Then at her lips. He doesn’t move. His tongue touches his top lip. She puts her hands on his shoulders, and he keeps them both afloat. His skin’s warm, even compared to the lightly heated water.

She takes a breath. Dunks him under the water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the songs for the places this chapter are (and in jj/kiara format, because, equality. also just for the longer than two nights places, otherwise we'd be here ALL DAY):
> 
> Munich: Pumped Up Kicks – Foster the People//Good as Hell – Lizzo  
> Berlin: Sail – AWOLNATION// Ribs – Lorde  
> Copenhagen: T-Shirt Weather – Circa Waves//Shuffle – Bombay Bicycle Club  
> Oslo: All the Pretty Girls - KALEO//Yellow Light – Of Monsters and Men  
> Bergen: Blood Bank – Bon Iver//Like Real People Do - Hozier
> 
> also - pumped up kicks is such a jj song???


	7. rome, part i.

*

They drive to a supermarket the next day. This time it’s Kiara who pulls out on someone, and her natural instinct is to freeze when a horn blares extremely close behind them.

JJ shouts, “accelerate! Fucking go!” and she stamps on the gas and they shoot forwards. She’s still shaking ten minutes later when she pulls into the parking lot.

They walk slowly around the store. JJ’s in charge of the cart, because if he doesn’t have something to do with his hands he ends up pulling armfuls of things off the shelves. There are still things which make an appearance despite not being put there by her, but it’s definitely less.

They argue in the Christmas section for six minutes. Kiara refuses to buy anything non-recyclable. JJ holds a plastic Santa in one hand, shaking it every time he makes a point.

“It’s re-usable, Kie.”

“When are you going to reuse it? If we leave it there, it’s gonna be thrown in the trash. Put it back. Look,” she shakes the DIY paper chain packets at him. “These will work just as well.”

He complains the rest of the way around. When they’re leaving there’s a small collection of Christmas trees leaning against the door, needles dropping on the floor.

“Oh, no,” she pre-empts, before he’s even said anything. It’s too late, because he’s already dropped the cart and is marching towards them, pulling them up by their tops. They’re wrapped in netting, so it’s impossible to see their full spread. “JJ! We can’t just put a tree inside. It’s a rented house.”

He pouts at her. “But I’ve never had a tree. Do you want to ruin Christmas?”

It takes several attempts to wedge the tree into the trunk. They have to put one of the back seats down and lie it horizontally across them all.

JJ says, “maybe I should drive home,” because she gets back behind the wheel and can’t bring herself to turn the key in the ignition. He waits for a minute before climbing out the door and sliding over the bonnet to the driver’s side. Kiara sits for a while longer, then gets out.

“You don’t even have your full permit,” she protests, but it’s weak and she’s already buckling herself into the passenger’s seat. JJ’s adjusting mirrors, moving the seat backwards, then forwards, then backwards again.

“Yeah, but I’ve been driving for years, and I think it’s probably hard to do a worse job than you were doing.”

She scowls out the window. Can’t deny he’s right, because the drive home passes with only two minor incidents. JJ’s the right balance between sharp reflexes and Italian arrogance. He doesn’t lose his nerve, reflexively accelerates whenever things look dubious. Doesn’t even require her to navigate, because she worked out quickly that he has the navigation skills of a homing pigeon.

Pine needles scatter over the tastefully tiled floor as JJ rips the netting off the tree. The branches fall downwards limply. There are gaps in the needles, and no angle looks great. JJ spins it as Kiara tries to decide on the most flattering viewpoint.

There are some string lights in one of the bedrooms, so Kiara takes a picture of how they’re set up before taking them all down. Wraps them around the spindly branches.

It takes a while to do the paper chains. Coloured paper covers the living room floor. Sticks to their feet, their elbows. JJ stands on the glue twice. Once they’re finished there’s meters and meters of them – she makes JJ stand on a chair and tape them in loops all over the ceilings of the living room and kitchen.

She eases the corkscrew out of the bottle of red wine and looks up recipes for homemade pasta. Settles on one which is translated from Italian. JJ sits on the kitchen counter with a beer, heels drumming against the cupboard. His throat bobs as he sips from the bottle.

He dunks his hand into the bag of flour at her request, sprinkles it over the counter top. Kiara lays out the pasta dough, starts searching for a rolling pin. It’s in the drawer next to JJ’s thigh, but he pushes it closed every time she pulls it open.

“JJ,” she huffs, and shoots him a look. Her hand’s on the drawer’s handle, half a foot or less from his leg.

Eventually he slides across, lets her open the drawer. She rubs flour over the pin, starts rolling out the pasta to the required thickness. JJ’s quiet, sipping from his beer, watching her hands. He slides down as she pulls a knife out of the block and starts cutting the pasta into ribbons.

“Let me,” he demands, but gently. Knocks her out the way with his hip. Kiara relinquishes her hold on the knife.

“No, thinner,” she tells him. Pushes his hand so the ribbon is narrower. “And all the way through, otherwise it tears.” He presses on the knife more forcefully. Realising she’s still pressed against his side, Kiara retreats and starts pulling open cupboards for the specialist pasta rack. She’s half convinced they’ll have one in the weirdly well stocked kitchen. Pulls one out triumphantly.

They arrange the pasta over the wooden hooks to air dry. JJ tries some of it raw, pulls a face as he chews. Kiara taps his arm with the floury rolling pin. “This is gross. You sure you’ve got the recipe right?”

“Serves you right, dumbass. It’s still raw.” He looks unconvinced. “You just wait.”

“Sure, sure.”

She shows him how to dice vegetables quickly, fingertips curled under, knife a blur. There are pans everywhere, and brownies in the oven, because they’re John B’s favourite.

“You don’t have to do all this,” JJ’s licking brownie batter off a spoon. There’s a smudge of it on the end of his nose. “You know they’re still gonna like you, right?”

She stirs the ragu on the stove, tastes a little. Adds some salt. “I just want it to go well,” she admits, not looking at him.

“Why wouldn’t it go well?”

Kiara shrugs, scratches her calf with her foot. “Everyone’s gone to college and thinks might just be different, y’know? New friends, new people. It could just be really different and weird.”

“We text and call each other all the time,” he’s still licking the spoon, tries to fit the whole of it into his mouth. “I don’t think we’re going to give you up that easily. We’re not about to abandon you for some Kooks now, are we?”

The reminder stings. She says, “we’re all Kooks now, technically.”

JJ sighs. “There’s more to being a Kook than just money.”

“That’s not what you’ve said all your life!”

His grin is sharp. “Sorry, I don’t make the rules.”

“You are literally reinventing the rules right now to suit your own agenda.”

She’s mildly outraged, and she knows he’s successfully distracted her. He must come to a similar realisation at the same time, because he slides down from the counter and says offhandedly, “we’ve got alcohol, food and a pool. We’ll be fine.”

He’s deposited the spoon into the sink and turned to look at her. She turns all the pans off, pulls the brownies from the oven, and leaves it all on the side to cool. Reaches past him to get the bottle of red wine from the window ledge, a quarter empty by virtue of the pasta sauce.

He doesn’t move away from her like he might have done previously. Just remains standing, leaning against the sink. There’s still brownie batter on his nose. He watches her hand as she scrubs her thumb over it, eyes tracking her wrist as she absentmindedly puts her thumb in her mouth. His eyes could bore holes in her, but she doesn’t flinch.

“C’mon,” she raises the bottle of wine, steps back. “Let’s drink wine and go swimming.”

There’s only enough left to have two glasses each. She floats on her back in the pool and JJ dives in repeatedly, trying to perfect his technique.

“I’m out of practice,” he complains, surfacing the other side of her. “I’m lazy and unfit.”

His abs are still defined and his biceps are a blessing to humanity, so she flicks water at him in protest.

“Same,” she sighs. “Eating out everyday has not been kind to me. Plus, booze is empty calories.”

JJ pauses from where he’s pulled himself out the pool. Settles to sit on the side instead. “Kie, you’ve literally lost weight.”

She definitely hasn’t. Her legs are maybe more defined, from all the walking, but it’s not like they’ve been working out consistently enough to maintain any muscle tone anywhere else. Maybe some in her arms from carrying her increasingly heavy backpack, but that barely counts.

There’s no sound of damp feet slapping along the tiles, nor any disturbance in the water as he dives. Kiara opens her eyes, looks over at him.

He’s still sitting on the side of the pool, looking at her. He’s frowning, looking frustrated. When she looks at him he looks away, pulls himself to his feet.

“I’m hungry,” he says. “Let’s go eat pasta.”

Kiara jolts into action, starts swimming towards the side. “JJ – don’t you fucking dare. That’s for tomorrow. JJ!”

He’s already disappeared through the sliding door. Kiara pulls herself out of the pool and stomps, water dripping everywhere. There’s a slick trail left by JJ and she almost slips on it twice, regains her balance as she turns the corner into the kitchen.

“JJ – I swear to God-”

He’s holding the loaf of ciabatta bread and a knife in one hand. “Sandwich?” he asks innocently, and she breaths all the anger out through her nose in a gust.

“You’re an asshole,” she complains, and retreats to get a towel.

“You still love me though,” he says smugly as she reappears, towel around her shoulders. Kiara rolls her eyes, throws one at his back. It drops to the floor as he pulls things from the fridge. “Cheese and ham okay?”

“It’s salami, but yeah, fine.”

He opens a packet of paprika chips because they’re definitely their favourite flavour. Kiara slices some cucumber and adds them to the plates despite his pouts. The prepared food is all cool, so she slices the brownies and tips everything else into bowls and tubs before stacking them in the fridge.

“Kie, sit down,” JJ commands. He’s sat at the small table in the kitchen, chewing on his sandwich.

They’ve both chosen rooms which overlook the terrace. Their rooms jut out onto the terrace, and there are huge windows with inset stone ledges a foot deep which face each other. She can see half of JJ’s bed where it’s pressed against the wall. When she goes to draw the curtains, he’s sitting on the ledge blowing smoke through the open window. He sees her and gestures for her to open the window.

It’s cold outside, and her worn t-shirt and shorts are no match for the cool night air.

“Fifty euros for a show,” JJ proposes. Kiara raises an eyebrow. “Fine. One hundred. But there better be some nipple.”

It makes her grin, huff a laugh. “Goodnight, JJ.”

“’night, Kie.”

She peeks a look at him a moment later, through a gap in the drapes. He’s still there, reclining languidly, cigarette between his fingers. Looking like some Goddamn renaissance painting or something.

It’s hard to get to sleep. She tosses from one side to the other. It’s too quiet, too vacant. There’s no one coughing or snoring. No bunk beds creaking as someone moves. Just when she’s about to give up and get up she hears quiet music from JJ’s room. It breaks up the silence, gives her something to concentrate on other than being alone.

JJ drives to the airport the next day. Kiara abandons left and right quickly, instead opting for towards me or towards you. They don’t talk about it.

She does say, “you should quit,” when he rolls the window down and asks her to light his cigarette. “Every cigarette shortens your life by ten minutes.”

“Yeah,” JJ agrees. “But the end of it. What am I missing? The dribbling and pissing yourself years?” he puffs exaggeratedly on the cigarette. “Goodbye, motherfuckers.” His fingers are tapping on the wheel, but there’s tension in his jaw. “Maybe I’ll be able to save my kids some care home fees.”

“Kids?” The Pogues are not in the habit of talking about their future beyond the immediate year. Kiara doubts JJ thinks further ahead than a day or two.

He shrugs, keeps his eyes on the road. “Maybe. Might see if the shitty dad thing is just a Maybank curse.”

Her throat feels very small. She says, “you’ll be a good dad, when you’re ready,” he slides a look her way, amused. So she scrambles. “In like ten years, whenever your brain’s finished developing. You can barely look after yourself right now, so maybe hold off on the whole kid thing for a while.”

She can see half of a deprecating grin as he looks straight ahead. “You interested in the position, Carrera?” he teases. “’cause I can make that happen.”

Her imagination has already created the scenario of JJ as a dad. Sure, it would be chaotic and loud and undoubtedly dubious on the safety front. But he’d be loyal and watchful. She blinks it away.

“As if,” she scoffs, and he tips his chin her way.

_The Pogues (plus Sarah)_

**John B [11:43]:** Wow border control are so serious

 **John B [11:43]:** And I can’t understand what anyone’s saying

 **John B [11:44]:** Pope is STRESSED

 **John B [11:51]:** I think he’s gonna have an aneurysm or something at this rate

 **John B [12:11]:** Okay we’re out now – where are you guys?

 **Pope [12:15]:** GUYS?

 **Pope [12:17]:** Please say we’re in the right airport??

 **Kie [12:18]:** JJ got in a fight with the ticket machine

 **Kie [12:18]:** Be there in a minute!!

JJ’s bouncing, keeps plucking the cap off his head, running a hand through his hair and putting it back on. The doors to arrivals slide open and there’s a mass of people, some holding whiteboards or sheets of paper with names on. Their heads swivel from side to side, scanning the crowd.

“Yo! JJ! Kie!” someone yells, and JJ’s sneakers squeak as he darts off. Kiara can see the brightness of one of John B’s ridiculously patterned shirts, right before JJ slams into him and he has to stagger back a few steps to take his friend’s weight. “Hey, hey bud, good to see you too.”

Kiara hugs Pope, who’s customarily stiff before wrapping his arms around her. He says, “hey, Kie, how you doing?” and he smells the same, of Old Spice (because that’s what his dad uses) and laundry detergent. JJ’s still clinging to John B, who looks over the blonde’s shoulder.

“Hey Kie,” he grins, and it’s so familiar that she thinks tears mist her vision for a second. Eventually JJ releases him, then moves to Pope and gives him the same all-encompassing vice like grip. Pope pats at his shoulder gingerly, but he’s smiling.

Kiara hugs John B, who says, “damn, it’s good to see you,” into her ear.

JJ shoulder’s Pope’s backpack and Kiara picks up John B’s smaller bag. He has a leather holdall which smells and looks expensive. JJ whistles when he sees it, walking backwards in front of the group.

“I didn’t think you’d go full Kook so quickly, John B,” he reprimands. “But then you are fraternising with the enemy.”

He walks backwards or circles the group. Presses a hand into Pope’s shoulder, or jostles against John B, as though he can’t comprehend them being here, being real. He’s talking a mile a minute, walking out across roads without looking for traffic.

“Some things never change,” Pope comments in exasperation, but Kiara thinks it’s fond.

Pope and John B are looking around, drinking everything in. Kiara remembers how discombobulating it was to see signs in a different language the first time. Not just that – but people’s different mannerisms, or the different type of buildings or fashions.

JJ’s saying, “and Kie’s made pasta for lunch – or maybe dinner, but we can eat it for lunch anyway – and the house we’ve got is like, full Kook. There’s a pool and it’s inside, and we’ve got a tree and decorations and there’s a vineyard next door where you can buy wine-” as he opens the trunk and starts pushing all the luggage in.

They all slide in – Kie in shotgun, JJ behind the wheel. There’s a slight incident as they leave the parking lot, an Italian driver trying to cut him up. JJ stays firm, doesn’t back down. Flips the driver off and shouts _idiota_ out the window.

Kie brings up Maps, selects the villa out of her recent history.

“I didn’t know you got your licence,” Pope comments idly, as he stares out the window. There’s a silence. Kie glances at JJ, who looks like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Oh, shit,” John B sounds impressed.

Pope sighs heavily. “Y’know Kie, I hoped you’d be a good influence on him, not the other way round.”

“Italian drivers are insane,” Kiara protests defensively. “They’re a different breed. You need balls of steel to drive around here.”

“Thanks, Kie,” JJ chirps brightly. He pauses for a split second at a junction.

Kie says, “to me,” and he indicates right and pulls out smoothly.

“Does this mean you’re admitting JJ’s a better driver?” John B hooks his hand through the headrest and pulls himself forward.

“No,” Kiara snaps. “Just that he’s on the same level of awfulness as everyone else in this country.”

“Still better than Pope, though,” JJ interjects.

“That’s hardly saying much,” Kiara dismisses. “Snails drive faster than Pope.”

“I refute that accusation,” says the man in question. “At least I drive legally.”

JJ has to slam on the brakes when someone pulls out on them, quickly swerving into the other lane. Kiara provides directions all the way home, and then John B says “holy shit,” in a low voice as they pull up the driveway to the villa.

It’s cold out but thankfully not raining. They can see right over the vineyard, and the manicured gardens surrounding the house.

Pope declares, “this was an excellent idea,” as he stands and surveys their surroundings. JJ’s already hauling bags out the trunk, handing them to their owners.

Kiara opens the door with the three crowding behind her. John B pushes at JJ’s shoulder, who falls into Pope. They all try and get through the door at the same time, getting stuck, their shouts filling the air as they all squeeze through and into the kitchen.

Kiara shouts, “pasta?” as everyone disperses through the house. Pope shouts as he finds the pool. John B is thundering up the stairs, shouting “there’s a terrace!” in a loud voice. JJ stands in the kitchen with her and he still hasn’t stopped grinning.

He fills a pot with water and puts it on to boil. Sets a timer on his phone, because she’s given him strict instructions not to let the pasta cook for longer than six minutes. Kiara decants the ragu into another pan and sets it to warm on the stove.

He’s saying, “no way can pasta cook in under ten minutes. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

Kiara bumps him with her hip, stirs the ragu. “Trust me. It will.”

He looks at her sideways, checks the timer on his phone. Starts searching for something to drain the pasta into.

“This is very domestic,” John B comments as he reappears, his bag gone. Pope’s in the living room, bag still on his back.

“These decorations are cool!” he calls through.

“Yeah, Kie made those.”

“You did put them up.”

“Under duress.”

Kiara slides him a look. He’s dumping the pan full of water above a colander, the water swirling down the drain. Kiara adds the pasta to the sauce and tosses it together. JJ pulls four bowls from a cupboard.

“Cheese,” she says, and he retrieves the parmigiana from the fridge and puts it on the table.

She serves John B and Pope healthy portions, then JJ hands her a bowlful. Silence falls as everyone tastes it. Kiara looks around slightly anxiously, biting back some comment about it being under seasoned.

“I haven’t cooked in ages,” she starts, reflexively defensive.

JJ catches her eye. “I always forget you can cook, Kie. This is really good.”

Pope and John B race to enthuse as well, mumbling their affirmation through pasta. Pope swallows and says, “it definitely beats cereal.”

“Pasta could potentially have done with longer.” JJ snatches his legs up as she kicks at them.

John B’s looking around at the three of them, smiling faintly. He jumps up and nudges Pope into action to clear the table and wash the dishes. They do rock, paper, scissors for who’s washing and who’s drying.

They propose going for a swim. Kiara protests, saying they’ve got to wait for their lunch to go down. John B asks why and she hasn’t actually got a reason, just that her parents always used to make her wait.

“Actually, that’s a common misconception,” Pope supplies helpfully, as he balances plates in the drying rack. “People thought that your blood diverted to your digestive system so you were at more risk of developing cramps and dying. But it’s been disproved.”

She can’t help but frown and JJ sees it. Slings an arm across her shoulders and rubs his knuckles into her hair, hard. Kiara jabs her fingers into his rib and he retreats a step, smirks from a meter away.

Lunch has given her a bloated stomach, so she pulls out the rarely worn reinforced swimsuit. Pope and JJ are already in the pool, shouting and dunking each other under the water. JJ swims around Pope’s legs before tackling him. John B appears in a pair of navy board shorts, running the last few strides and launching himself into the pool.

JJ disappears to the kitchen and comes back with four beers. Kiara shouts, “no glass by the pool!” and he rolls his eyes, but fetches plastic tumblers and decants the beers outside. It’s cool and refreshing, her toes dipped in the pool.

John B is a little subdued, not quite joining in with the antics. Kiara notices JJ eyeballing him a few times, but he doesn’t try and draw him into a cannon balling competition, nor try and dunk him.

Eventually John B joins Kiara on the side. She passes him his tumbler of beer. They watch JJ and Pope as they run and jump, then race each other across the pool.

“JJ seems good,” John B says eventually. He’s rolling the tumbler between his palms.

“Yeah,” she agrees. “I think it’s been good for him, getting out of the Cut.”

John B hums lightly, considering. “Probably good to get away from his dad.”

No one really talks about what happened when Luke Maybank discovered the Phantom was missing, and put two and two together from the island’s gossip. It involved him trying to wrestle JJ from school grounds, John B and Pope racing from the school building. JJ had a black eye and a bust lip by the time they got there.

Luke was arrested for breaking the restraining order that had been put in place following the foster care placement. Not that anyone enforced the breach. Just sighed and chucked him in a cell to sober up.

“What about you, John B?” she looks at him so he can’t hide his reaction. “You good?”

He presses his lips together, looks across the pool. Takes a sip of his beer. “I’ve dropped out of college,” he admits eventually.

Shock won’t help the situation, so Kiara keeps her face carefully neutral. “Okay.” He looks at her and she shrugs. “Half of us here never even applied to college, so you’ve done more than we have.”

His smile is small and fleeting. “True. Bet your parents are still pretty pissed at you.”

“They’re coming round. I have all the money I need now, so they can’t use the job prospect thing.”

“It’ll be nice to see them.”

“Oh, yeah. Weird though, mixing parents and Pogues.” Then, because he’s changed the subject and steered himself away, she prompts, “how’s Sarah with the dropping out thing?”

His face changes and if it were JJ she’d take it as a sign to stop probing. But it’s John B, and he likes to talk things through.

He takes another sip of his beer. “Things are… weird. I mean, it was always going to be, considering her dad basically killed mine,” he takes a breath after this statement, and it shudders. “And now Rafe and Ward are in prison because of us, because of me. And she’s given all of us the gold which has like, seriously fucked her dad off. So things were never going to be simple.” He pauses again, inhales shakily. “But, shit, Kie. It’s hard. We’re in a completely different place and she loves her roommate and I’ve had to move off campus to an apartment and there’s nothing to do but surf all day and I’m so _bored_ and I miss home and you guys and I wish I’d never started looking for this fucking gold in the first place, because at least then we’d all be home and I wouldn’t be so lonely.”

It’s a lot, all in one blurted rush. Like he’s had the words primed and ready, just unspoken. She says, “hey, shhh,” and scoots closer. Wraps an arm around his shoulders so he can lean against her side. He’s not quite crying, but half is, body trembling. Kiara runs a gentle hand through his hair.

When she looks up, JJ’s watching. Pope’s about to dive into the pool, but JJ’s frowning at them. Kiara tilts her head back at him. He nods briefly, says, “yo, Pope, let me show you the terrace,” and Pope pauses, having just landed his dive, but then swims after him as they head for the steps.

It falls quiet without their splashing. “Going after the gold didn’t change anything about your dad,” she points out, still pulling her fingers through his hair. “Ward did what he did before we started looking. If anything, it only brought good to everyone. Pope has gone to college. JJ’s finally gone on vacation. Sarah’s free of her abusive dad and psycho brother.”

John B’s breathing is shallower now. He says, “oh,” and it’s the only indication he’s still listening or present.

“It’s better than the alternative. Ward could have got the gold. He definitely wouldn’t have given half to charity.”

His smile is weak. He pulls away, scrubs the heel of his hand over his eyes. Says, “yeah, true.”

She’s on a roll now. “And the other stuff – you can fix that. Maybe look for house shares with other people. Look at volunteering, or getting a job. You could be a surf instructor or something in the summer. You could start up an ice cream parlour and only hire ex-cons. Start a dog walking business because you don’t actually need the money.”

“They all sound like things you want to do, Kie.”

She bumps her shoulder into his. “You’ve just gotta give it time, dude. A lot has happened in the past few years. Just gotta let the dust settle. Have you spoken to Sarah?”

“I just – I don’t want her to think that I blame her for her dad, y’know? And I know she’s really upset about her dad and him being in prison. At least they’re alive. But they’re also murderous assholes so who’s the real winner here? My dad may have been gone a lot, but at least he was nice and now he’s dead. Ward isn’t a good person but he wasn’t a bad dad until he went off the rails. He still loves her. Plus we didn’t even get most of the gold, so there’s likely some separate stashes.”

“You can’t just expect her to stop loving her dad. She probably feels weird about all this too. Maybe you should try, I don’t know, talking to her? Otherwise it’s just going to get weirder and weirder and you’ll never talk about it and it’ll be this Thing between you.”

“Yeah, ‘cause Pogues are great at talking about things.” He shoots her a lopsided smile.

Kiara eyeballs him. “I don’t know. Even JJ’s spoken a bit about his parents.” John B’s head snaps towards her. “Not much, but… bits.”

“Shit,” he breathes out. “Now that is a Christmas miracle.”

“Just talk to her. You love talking. She’ll be relieved.”

He breaths out steadily. Downs the rest of his beer. “Yeah, you’re probably right. When did you get so wise?”

“I’ve always been wise,” he’s standing up, so she follows. “Just no one ever listens to me.”

“I’ve missed you,” it’s thrown over his shoulders as they pad barefoot back to the kitchen, towards Pope and JJ’s loud voices.

“We’ve missed you too, John B.”

JJ is throwing candy into Pope’s mouth in the living room, who moves expertly to catch it. They vary between underarm and overarm shots, cheer every time they land one. JJ looks up as they walk in, eyes flickering between them, assessing. Kiara slouches into a chair, tucks her feet underneath her. John B sinks onto the couch, demands JJ throws candy into his mouth. Their chatter gets louder, swells. JJ tries to hitch Pope onto his shoulders; Pope yells as his head brushes the ceiling.

A while later, Kiara goes to swap her beer for a red wine. They’d been left some complimentary bottles by the villa’s owners, and she’s discovered she really likes the taste. She’s struggling to uncork the bottle and thinking about John B – the pain in his voice, him admitting he’s lonely. It’s always been her suspicion that he’s not dealt with his dad’s death as well as it seems on the surface but whenever she’s broached the subject he’s joked or brushed her off.

“Wine, Kie? Really? You gonna be a crazy wine aunt?” JJ has three empty bottles between his fingers, carried like the expert busboy he once was.

The cork is well and truly rammed in the neck of the bottle. No amount of levering is loosening it. She says, “here,” and hands him the bottle. He pulls the cork out easily, smirks at her. It fades to a frown.

“Kie?” he says questioningly, eyes flicking over her face.

“John B’s not great,” she tells him quietly. He sets the bottle on the counter, looks at the cork in his hands.

“I know.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“You’re the best out of all of us with this shit,” he points out. It’s hardly a stunning review of any prowess. And not a high award, because the rest of them studiously ignore any emotional content whatsoever.

He puts an arm around her shoulder and pulls her to his side. She buries her face into the side of his chest. His other hand tugs at a strand of her hair, twisting it. It shouldn’t be enough. But it’s exactly right.

They have bread and leftover pasta for dinner along with more than a few beers. They sit on the terrace and John B points out all the constellations with a lazy arm. She’s wedged on a fancy wicker woven outdoor couch between John B and Pope. Pope has his arm along the back of it, legs outstretched. JJ’s on a smaller couch to the side, smoking idly, the other hand flicking his lighter into life continuously. There are blankets from a chest next to the door wrapped around their legs, their breath fogging in the night air.

John B and Pope crash out relatively early through a combination of jetlag and indulgence in alcohol. Kiara goes to the bathroom. When she gets back, JJ’s still smoking. Kiara pulls a blanket from the couch and sits next to him. Their hips touch in the small space. He drops the lighter into his lap, raises his arm so she can rest against his side.

“You’re so warm,” she says appreciatively.

“So hot, some may say.”

“Jury’s out.”

“I saw you checking me out earlier.”

“I saw _you_ checking me out earlier.”

JJ hums, takes a drag of his cigarette. “It’s a nice swimsuit.”

“Thanks, I’ll let mom know. It’s spanx. Holds all that pasta in.” He looks away from her, looks like he wants to roll his eyes. She closes her eyes, rest a check against his chest. “John B’s dropped out of college.”

“I know,” he’s twisting a strand of her hair between his fingers. “I didn’t think he would suit college. He barely suited school. He skipped almost as much as me, once Big John was gone.”

“Maybe you should have said that.”

He shrugs and her head shifts with the movement. “Better to figure things out yourself, sometimes.”

“Christ, don’t stop there. That shit was almost profound.”

He rubs at an itch on his chin by using her forehead as a scratching post. She protests in a quiet mumble. The air’s cool on her face and shoulders, but the blanket’s warm and so’s JJ, pressed against her, his hand in her hair.

She’s woken up by John B saying, “my, this is cosy,” and JJ’s sleep laced _fuck off_. Kiara’s eyes slide open. JJ’s head is resting on hers; her hand’s curled into the front of his sweatshirt.

John B’s at the glass doors which open up from the hallway onto the terrace, phone in hand. “I forgot my phone,” he explains. “Got a cute picture.”

JJ makes a noise of protest as she sits up. John B looks like he hasn’t slept yet, eyes red and bloodshot.

She gets up and follows him back to his room. He’s unsurprised to see her as she falls onto the bed, the king size ensuring she keeps an appropriate distance. JJ trails in a few minutes later, blanket over his shoulders like a cape. He collapses at the foot of the bed, over their feet. Uses Kiara’s legs as a pillow.

“We love you,” Kiara tells him.

“Yeah,” JJ mumbles. “Love you, man.”

John B pats her shoulder and nods and turns the light off.

Pope wanders in in the morning, saying “John B – have you seen JJ and Kie – oh,” as he takes in the pile. JJ’s shifted further up the bed, John B diagonally, and Kie has her back to JJ, spines together. Pope assesses the situation for a moment, then climbs over John B into a space.

“Guys,” says John B, stirred awake by the movement and everyone pressed around him. “Guys. I dropped out of college.”

There’s a pause. Then:

“Yeah, I know-”

“Well, no shit-”

“I could have told you not to go.”

John B’s looking around at their faces in betrayal. Says, “you assholes,” but without any heat.

“College is overrated anyway,” JJ states, and he’s shifting, turning onto his back.

“Objection,” mutters Pope. “I’m having the time of my life.”

“Better than summers in the Outer Banks? Surfing and smoking and fishing? With your _best friends_?” JJ quirks an eyebrow. Pope scowls. “Thought so.”

Kiara sees JJ patting vaguely at John B’s legs.

“Breakfast?” Pope pipes up hopefully.

“There’s brownies in the fridge,” JJ recalls.

“Absolutely not.” Kiara sits up, points threateningly. “Brownies are not a suitable breakfast.”

“They are if you add a glass of milk.”

“Yeah, Kie,” John B adds a whine to his voice. “It’s our vacation.”

“We’ll eat some cucumber for lunch,” JJ promises, and he’s already clambering over legs and bodies to get out.

“Speak for yourself,” Pope army rolls over John B, chases after JJ. “I’m having pizza for lunch.”

Outside, JJ says, “well, obviously I’m not actually going to have cucumber for lunch,” his voice getting fainter as he takes the stairs what sounds like three at a time.

John B’s still lying, staring at the ceiling. Kiara thinks he has a faint smile. She pats at his shoulder before getting up.

“Hurry up,” she urges, “or there’ll be none left.”

Over breakfast she tries to coax a plan for the day out of them. Pope asks where’s good to go in Rome, besides the obvious. Is shocked that they’ve not actually been in the centre properly yet.

“Figured we’d wait for you guys,” Kiara explains, chewing on the edge of the brownie.

“Yeah, been kind of novel having a whole place to ourselves. Being able to take a shit in peace? Bliss.”

Kiara drives them into Rome. It takes a lot longer than Google Maps believes should be reasonable. There’s silence in the car until they pull into a multi-storey parking lot and Kiara cuts the engine.

“So,” she says brightly, and claps her hands for good measure. “Anyone have any preferences for what they want to do first?”

“I can’t believe I’m still alive. John B, are we alive? Am I alive?” Pope mutters, hands moving over his face in question.

“Funny,” Kiara deadpans.

“I think it was better than last time. We only stared death in the face the four times this time,” JJ touches her shoulder briefly. Kiara frowns at him, unsure whether it’s supposed to be reassuring or mocking.

“JJ’s driving back,” John B declares. “Or me. I have my licence. Literally anyone but Kie, at this point.”

“Or Pope,” JJ reminds him.

John B pauses, reconsiders. “Yeah, or Pope. Definitely not Pope. He’s behind Kie.” John B shoots him an apologetic look. “Sorry bud.”

“I’ve not even driven here,” Pope protests. “This could be some secret, hidden talent of mine.”

“Pope, I love you,” JJ begins, and he slings an arm around his shoulders. “But assertiveness and driving are just not in your nature, dude. I once saw you debating over two different colours of the same t-shirt for an hour. And you still couldn’t choose, so you didn’t buy either.”

Kiara marches forward, links her arm with Pope’s and pulls him away from JJ’s grasp. “It’s okay, Pope,” she says loudly. “At least this means we don’t have to be the designated driver.”

There’s a moment of realisation. Then, “well – if you really wanted to immerse yourself in local customs I believe driving on Italian roads would give you a well rounded experience-”

“But you drove us so well from the airport-”

“I don’t want you to miss out on anything-”

“You already have the necessary experience-”

The keys get tossed between them, back and forth with a cheerful clank. Until John B says, “this is my vacation and I’m sad,” and pouts. JJ snatches the keys from the air with a scowl.

“Fine. But when I say we’re leaving, we’re leaving.”

“You’re a darling,” John B pats at his cheek. “Now, can we go see Rome?”

They go to the Colosseum and the Roman Forum. John B and JJ run across the sidewalk in front of the Colosseum pretending to be gladiators sparring, swiping at each other with invisible swords. Pope and Kiara pretend not to know them. Kiara promises they’ll come back and have a tour of the inside, once the parents have landed.

They climb the steps of Gianicolo Hill, the top of which gives views over the city. Pope surveys the buildings, his hands on his hips.

“God, you can really feel the history, can’t you?” he enthuses. JJ looks scandalised.

“Feel the history,” he mimics, then ducks out of the way as Pope tries to wrestle him into a headlock.

A canon goes off nearby at noon, which delights JJ. John B takes pictures of absolutely everything.

They do get pizza for a late lunch, once they’ve traipsed back down the steps from their viewpoint. Kiara orders a side salad, takes great relish in forking some cucumber onto JJ’s plate. He either eats it or throws it on the floor when she’s not looking, because it disappears. From his innocent look, either is possible.

They meander past St Peter’s Bascilica, but veto going inside for a tour. John B declares that that’s definitely a parent approved activity. She takes a deep, grounding breath outside a store when JJ enthuses that John B has to try the weird Fanta right now and drags him inside by his arm.

The diversion is forgiven when he pushes a full sugar coke at her, one eyebrow raised. The sugar rush mellows her instantly.

They jump on the trams and instead go to the Catacombs of Saint Callixtus. It’s dark and cold underground, with statues of Popes everywhere. JJ makes Pope stand next to each Pope-statue and copy their pose. Pope gets a little twitchy in the crypt of the Popes, which amuses JJ.

“Imagine if there was a JJ crypt,” Pope protests. “That would freak anyone out.”

“Quite a lot of the Popes were called Jean Paul, which is basically John B,” Kiara points out mildly. “And he’s not losing his shit.”

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” JJ swats at her shoulder. “There are bones in here, Kie. Have some respect.”

She doesn’t really notice it, but they seem to naturally fall into JJ and Kie, and Pope and John B formation whilst walking down sidewalks. Kiara and JJ lead the way, one usually Googling frantically, the other squabbling. JJ’s chief navigator, as always.

He’s also the one that navigates buying gelato’s when John B insists they stop off for a break.

“I never though JJ would be the best at international relations,” Pope muses, as JJ somehow charms the non-English speaker behind the counter.

“He has no sense of embarrassment,” Kiara explains. “It’s a natural phenomenon. Excellent skill.”

He hadn’t had to check her order – just passes her mint chocolate chip in a cone.

Finally John B declares he’s done enough walking for one day. Diverts them all into a local bar. JJ and Kiara insist on buying the first round, head to the bar.

“Maybe we should go out tonight,” Kiara proposes, leaning her elbows against the bar. “Pope’s first going out experience.

“Surely he has a fake ID? He’s at college.”

Kiara raises one eyebrow. “He almost had an aneurysm at you driving. He definitely doesn’t have a fake ID. And if he does, he’s definitely too nervous to use it.”

“Ten bucks he has one.”

“Twenty he’s never used it.”

They shake on it. JJ holds her hand for longer than strictly necessary, his thumb sweeping over her wrist. “Get ready to lose, Carrera.”

The barman’s placed the filled pint glasses in front of them and waits. Kiara releases JJ’s hand, passes over the crisp notes.

“We’re thinking of going out tonight,” Kiara announces as she places two beers on the table and pulls herself up onto the high barstools.

“Yeah, and Pope won’t even have to use his fake here, ‘cause it’s legal.”

“One, we’re already out and two, I don’t have a fake.”

JJ slams a hand into the table and yells, “damnit, Pope! I give you far more street cred then you deserve,” before pulling a note out of his pocket and handing it to Kiara, looking aggrieved. Pope looks between them, offended.

“I definitely could have a fake,” he protests hotly. “I’m cool enough for that. I’ve driven under the influence!”

They stay for two drinks, which is when the alcohol buzz starts to kick in. It’s cold outside, so Kiara winds her scarf around her neck.

“Are we near the car?” she asks JJ, who tilts his head.

“How is he supposed to know that?” John B demands.

“He probably does,” Kiara defends, “don’t you?”

“We’re near-ish. Within a couple of blocks.”

“He’s like a human compass or atlas or something,” Kiara tells Pope and John B grandly. “Pretty fucking useful.”

She can tell he’s flattered, the tips of his ears tinging pink. Instead he looks around the group. “Are we going out, or we just gonna stand circle jerking all evening?”

John B and JJ retreat outside at the next bar for a smoke. Pope is drawing circles in the condensation on the table. Bites his lower lip, like some words are stuck in his mouth. Kiara waits.

“So,” he begins eventually, and he doesn’t look at her. Focusses on the patterns he’s creating. “You and JJ.”

Kiara frowns over the rim of her wine glass. She’s moved onto wine, because who would stick with the four percent proof carbonated beverage when there’s a twelve percent socially acceptable smooth tasting alternative? Nerves coil in her stomach, and she wonders whether JJ’s told him about her kissing him.

“Me and JJ what?” she fights to keep her tone nonchalant, casual.

“You seem… close.”

“Right…. Well, we have been living together for coming up four months.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, but his face says that’s not entirely what he means.

Kiara wonders whether she’s being wilfully ignorant. There have been moments where she’s caught herself. When she enters a room and immediately seeks out JJ. When she goes to sit next to him, out of reflex. When she finds herself saying something, trying to make a quip, just to make him look at her and laugh or smile or push at her shoulder.

She reasons it’s normal, when you’re so used to having someone’s undivided attention.

Pope tries again. “I wouldn’t be mad. Me and you… I really liked you, Kie, but I think we’re better as friends.”

Kiara squints at him. “Are you breaking up with me?”

“What?”

“It sounds like we’re breaking up. I thought we’d already done that.”

Sometimes it’s amusing just to fluster him. “Yeah – we have – I know – we’ve not been a thing since like, forever – what?”

Kiara laughs at him, head tipped back. “Oh my God, I’m joking. I know. We’re cool, right?”

Relief crosses his face. “Yeah, we’re cool. We’re always cool. I’m just saying, I wouldn’t be mad.”

“Okay, I think. I’m not sure what you would be mad about. But okay.”

“Right,” he relaxes his shoulders. “You know JJ thought we were still together until just before you left?”

Kiara shrugs. “So? Not really his business.”

Pope smiles, takes a sip of his beer. “Yeah. That’s what he said.”

“Well, I’m glad we cleared all that up. Anyway, how’s college?”

Pope launches into a round up of college, his classes, his roommate, his extra-curriculars. His eyes spark and his hands move in animation. The contentment practically radiates off him in waves.

There’s a sharp draft as the door opens and snaps close. JJ says, “I can’t believe you,” in a wry amused way. He’s smiling, eyes crinkled at the corner. Presses his hand briefly to Kiara’s shoulder, clocks her empty glass.

“Drink?” he asks, and she smiles her confirmation. He refocuses on the rest of the table. “Anyone else?”

Pope shakes his head, raises his half full glass.

“I’m good, man,” John B indicates his full glass.

JJ slouches back into his seat once he’s ordered, passing Kiara her wine. “God, I can’t believe Europeans try to pass off Sprite or 7up as lemonade.”

Kiara steals a sip of his drink, wrinkles her nose. “You’ve been conned. Although it’s better than that London iced tea.”

JJ shudders. “That should never have been permitted to call itself tea.”

“Still better than that breakfast.”

“ _Ooo, these beans are underseasoned_ ,” he mimics, then snatches his feet out of the way as she aims a kick at his shins. “ _These mushrooms are sad_.”

“I don’t know how you’ve put up with him for so long,” John B interrupts, as Kiara shoves at JJ’s shoulder. He falls away, faux-dramatic, rubbing at where her hand’s connected.

“Oh,” she says, and JJ’s watching her, sipping at his gross drink supposedly masquerading as lemonade. “He’s not too bad, once you get used to the smell.”

The next bar has a small dancefloor at the back.

“No,” says JJ, before she can even ask him.

“Absolutely not,” Pope confirms.

John B’s too slow as she grabs his hand, drags him over. Kiara thinks she likes wine drunk Kiara – she has energy, lower inhibitions. Rolls her hips.

“Jesus, Kie, I am taken,” John B protests weakly as she half grinds on him.

“I’m just dancing,” she protests, but puts distance between them anyway.

She persuades Pope into downing two shots of tequila, back to back, licking salt off his wrist. The alcohol seems to hit him straight away and he allows himself to be dragged to the dancefloor. She loops her arms around his neck.

“Look, just relax,” she coaches. “You’re too stiff. Just. Loosen up,” she links their fingers together, demonstrates. He loses a little of his inhibitions, bobs his shoulders and head experimentally. Kiara cheers, claps her hands. “Finally!”

“You’re drunk,” JJ accuses as her elbows slide across the slick top of the bar, as she pulls herself straight with great effort and looks at him.

“But I’m a fun drunk,” she tells him. Pats at his cheek. “You’re still pretty.”

He grins, looks to the barman. Orders her another drink anyway.

Pope’s abandoned her on the dancefloor. She looks briefly for JJ and John B, but they’re nowhere to be seen. She dances with a group of Italian girls for two songs, then one of their nice looking Italian male friends comes and re-joins them. Smiles across the circle at Kiara.

She’s not looking for anything – not when all her boys are here, not when it’s supposed to be Pogue time. But she does dance with him, and he’s good. Fast, rhythmic, on the verge of being outrageous but not quite. It makes her laugh, spinning under his arm.

He tries to get into her space, tries to pull her in by her waist. She steps back. He gives that up with a curious look.

She goes to get a glass of water from the bar. Someone presses up against her.

“JJ,” she protests, but she’s smiling, turning.

“No, Marco,” says an accented voice, the guy from the dancefloor. His hands are on her waist, skimming her sides. There’s limited room to manoeuvre in the crowd around the bar, limited wriggle room. “Pretty girl,” he says quietly, hoarsely. His hands are moving up her ribcage and before she can say anything, do anything, under her top, brushing the underside of her boob, grazing her nipple, and his lips are on the back of her neck, sticky and wet.

Kiara spins and shoves him, the anger red-hot. Shouts, “what the fuck, asshole?” and pushes him again. He’s regained his footing, is moving forwards. She slaps him across the face, so hard that her hand goes numb. There’s a frantically cleared circle around them – his friends have rushed to his side. Someone’s pulling at her shoulders and she’s reeling backwards, ready to launch herself at him.

“Kie, Kie,” says the voice urgently, and it’s Pope, gripping her upper arms and pulling her out. There’s a lot of shouting in Italian, a bouncer shouldering his way through the crowd. Marco’s friends are holding him back. He spits on the floor, at her feet.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Kiara yells, but Pope’s dragging her out backwards, insisting _we need to go, Kie, come on, fuck_.

He releases her once she’s outside and ten foot away from the door. Stands in front of her, arms outstretched, blocking her from rushing back inside.

“He can’t just do that!” she yells and she’s furious, tears of anger and rage and a little of shame springing to her eyes.

“What the fuck is going on?” John B demands, as he and JJ march over from where they’ve been smoking on the sidewalk.

“Kie attacked someone,” Pope explains. “I got her out before the huge, muscly bouncer did so.”

“Damn, Kie,” JJ sounds impressed.

“He assaulted me,” Kie protests, and she’s cradling her still numb hand and biting back tears. Trying to pull her shirt around her, because her jacket’s still inside.

“Shit,” John B grinds his cigarette under his shoe, steps up to her side. His hands hover, not quite making contact with her. “You okay?”

He puts an arm around her then and she holds herself upright for all of two seconds before sinking into the embrace. Presses her face to his shoulder.

Distantly she can hear JJ saying, “was it the dancing guy?” and Pope’s quick, quiet, “no – JJ – don’t,” but she’s curling her hands into John B’s jacket and taking heaving breaths.

She stays wrapped up in John B for a while, until the door’s snapped open and JJ says urgently, “yeah, we need to leave like now,” and John B’s holding her arm and pulling her along the sidewalk at a run. JJ throws her jacket to Pope and he doesn’t look at her, his jaw and shoulders tense. Even when they deem themselves a safe distance and slow to a walk.

“Asshole,” Pope says finally, and he’s patting Kiara’s hair. John B’s arm doesn’t leave her shoulders. She’s stopped crying, instead settled on an eery, blank fury.

They stand in the elevator of the multi-storey parking lot and the only sound is Kiara’s ragged breathing. She’s last to exit the elevator, and JJ’s hung back.

“You good?” he asks, and he’s not looking at her. His jaw still hasn’t relaxed.

“I don’t need you to fight my fights,” she grits out, because he’s clenching and unclenching his hand like he’s reliving the blow. His second knuckle is split.

“Kind of looked like you did,” his tone’s cold, dismissive.

“Fuck you,” she snaps, and she’s crowding him. The fury hasn’t left and she’s pushing at his chest, his shoulders, hand in fists. “Fuck you, fuck you.”

He doesn’t do anything, just lets her hit his chest. Falls backwards.

It’s John B who pulls her off, gasping, “Jesus Christ, Kie,” and persuading her to the car. She sits in the back, spine ramrod straight. Stares resolutely out the window, even though it’s dark and she can’t see anything but blurred lights as they pass.

She throws the door open once they’re back and stomps to the front door. The exit is ruined because she has to wait for JJ to unlock the door with the keys. He stands aside to let her march inside, slamming on all the lights as she passes.

The tap is obnoxiously loud as she turns it on and lets it run to reach the optimal temperature. She stands at the sink, gripping the edge of the counter. She can sense the boys in the room, shuffling awkwardly, or John B opening the fridge and searching for leftovers.

“We had to do something,” JJ says eventually. When she whips around he’s finally looking at her, but his jaw’s still set.

“You shouldn’t have to do anything. He shouldn’t have been so fucking entitled that he thinks he can do that. I shouldn’t feel so fucking powerless or scared just because he’s a man. But he did, and I do, and I don’t need you going around punching whoever the fuck you want just because it makes you feel better.”

“He shouldn’t have,” he agrees. “But he did. And that doesn’t change. I don’t understand why you’re so mad. I’m sorry he did that – I am. But maybe next time he’ll think twice.”

“You don’t know why I’m mad? I’m mad because Pope gets concerned when I walk alone at night in Berlin – one of the safest cities in the world. I’m mad because some guy feels entitled to my body when all I’ve done is dance with him. I’m mad because whenever I say I’ve got male best friends everyone assumes I’ve fucked you all. I’m mad because everyone says _be careful_ and _oh are you wearing that out_ as if it’s going to be my fault that something happens to me, even if it’s someone else doing that thing. I’m mad because me changing what I wear doesn’t stop that bad thing happening, it just makes it happen to someone else. I’m mad because I’m thinking what if I did do something, did I ask for it.”

“Well, maybe he won’t do it again.”

Her laugh is hollow and jagged. She downs a glass of water, slams it onto the counter. “Or maybe he’ll just go after someone on their own. Someone without male friends. You haven’t cured anything but your own self satisfaction. Well done, JJ. Good job.”

She pushes past him. He says, “Kie,” in a low voice as she passes, but John B catches his arm and says, “leave it, dude,” and they all let her go.

There’s a knock on her door half an hour later, once she’s brushed her teeth and changed into sweats and a hoodie and sent Sarah several angry texts about what assholes all men are. She’s scrolling aggressively through Instagram when John B pushes the door open, holds out a glass of water.

“Truce?” he says, and he’s waving a white t-shirt as a flag. It makes her smile despite herself, then roll her eyes.

“You’re allowed,” she relents, and he sits on her bed. Hands her the glass of water.

There’s a long pause, in which Kiara sips at the water. John B trails a hand over her covers. Eventually he says, “JJ didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I know.”

“He just… he knows what it’s like, to feel defenceless. And I don’t think he wants anyone to feel like that.”

Nothing could have deflated her quicker. It’s like a bucket of water over her anger, dousing the flame. She slumps against the pillow, shoulders curled.

John B touches her shoulder. “I’m sorry that asshole did that, Kie. He shouldn’t have.”

“I know,” her breath gusts out, and she nods. “It’s okay. I’m okay. It’s nothing, really. It’s not like it was-” she cuts off, scowls. “Thank you for the water. I’m okay. See you in the morning?”

He doesn’t look completely satisfied with her answer, but slides off the bed anyway. “Yeah, okay. ‘Night, Kie.” He pauses at the door, but then pulls it shut with a quiet click.

Once he’s gone she turns the light off and tries to sleep. Closes her eyes and wills herself to relax. The aftermath of adrenaline is still coursing through her veins, making her limbs twitch. Her breath catches in her throat, reliving the helplessness, the panic. The disgust and the fear.

She slides a gap open in the curtains hopefully. JJ’s sat in his window, smoking a cigarette. She watches as he stubs one out and immediately relights another. His gaze darts up as she slides her window open, as she climbs out.

The tiles of the terrace are cold under her feet. She stops in front of him, her arms folded across her chest.

“I’m sorry for hitting that guy,” JJ says eventually.

“You don’t mean that.”

He exhales smoke, shrugs one shoulder. “John B said I should say it anyway.” There’s silence. “Then I’m sorry that guy touched you.”

She shrugs, looks at the sky briefly. “Could have been worse, right?”

He’s looking at her and his blue eyes are closer to navy. Says, “Kie,” and it’s low and soft and sad.

She takes a deep breath in, annoyed that it catches. She holds out her arms and he’s twisting out, knees hooking over the side of the stone ledge. He’s warm as she steps into his embrace. Warm and smells of smoke and faintly of her shampoo. She leans into his neck, feels his lips on her hair.

“Did you at least get him good?”

“Oh, yeah. In the nose and the eye. Blood everywhere.” He runs a hand down her shoulder.

He remains close when she pulls away. Noses almost bumping. He doesn’t move. The cigarette burns closer to his fingers.

The kiss she presses to his lips is brief, chaste. Then another, softer, gentler, trying to tease a reaction. He hasn’t moved away, but he hasn’t moved into her.

He says, “Kie, you’re upset,” and turns his face away from her. Doesn’t move his arm from her shoulders.

“Sorry,” she says, and it’s into his sweatshirt covered chest.

“S’okay,” she thinks his lips touch the side of her head briefly. “We love you.”

“We love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so that was a lot of emotions
> 
> thank you so much everyone who's commented or messaged or anything, it means so much!


	8. rome, part ii.

*

JJ and John B disappear for two and a half hours early one morning. They return with a small ziplock bag of weed.

“I don’t know whether I’m impressed or concerned,” says Pope mildly, but he’s helping them set up the food processor they’ve resorted to using in absence of a grinder.

They’d tried to persuade Kie to let them use the pestle and mortar, even after JJ had ridiculed her for a solid minute for knowing it’s actual name (“ _it’s almost like my dad owns a restaurant or something,” “oh, we’re calling the Wreck a restaurant now are we?”_ ). 

They plug the processor in, feed the weed through the hole in the lid. JJ pulses carefully, diligently.

“I’m not sure this was a scenario the manufacturer envisioned for his creation,” Pope muses, as John B pushes the larger bits down with a plastic spatula.

“He’d be honoured,” JJ declares confidently.

“Or she,” John B adds, as Kiara narrows her eyes.

JJ rolls two blunts with practiced ease. Kiara makes them sit on the terrace to smoke it, bundled up in hoodies and sweats and woollen hats. She even bans the blankets, so they don’t smell.

“What are we, prisoners of war?” JJ complains, but he’s lighting the joint, taking a deep breath in.

They even cajole Pope into joining in.

“You’re on vacation,” John B implores.

“Weed is totally not a big deal in Europe,” JJ reassures him. “You’re fine.”

“Still illegal in Italy,” Pope mutters, as he Googles. But he relents and Kiara musses his hair in victory, passes him the joint. John B thumps him on the back when he coughs.

They end up a pile of bodies on John B’s ridiculously big bed. JJ lies like a starfish in the middle, a limb across everyone else. John B keeps falling asleep but jerking awake and denying it instantly. Pope keeps repeating facts about dead bodies but losing his train of thought halfway though.

Kiara just revels in this. Them, the Pogues. The way John B’s taken her aside to check she’s okay. How JJ’s been resolutely normal, but kept a sharp eye. How Pope made her chamomile tea which had tasted like musty piss, and they’d then discovered the tea bags were three years out of date.

“Oh my God, Pope,” JJ sits up suddenly. “Holy shit. Fuck sake, man.”

Pope looks scandalised. “What?”

“Pope!” John B cries, and he’s clamped a hand over his nose. “Dude!”

“Wait – no, that’s not me.”

“Well, it’s not mine. I always admit it,” JJ points out.

“That’s true,” John B confirms. “He’s also partial to a pull-my-finger.”

“Well – it’s not mine!”

“Doesn’t smell like John B’s,” JJ sniffs the air suspiciously, narrows his eyes.

“Definitely not. Not meaty enough.”

“You guys are gross,” Kiara protests, but she’s grinning at the ceiling. “And Pope, maybe you should get checked out. Because that shit is nasty.”

“Wasn’t me,” Pope grumbles petulantly, sinking back to the bed in defeat.

“Good cover,” JJ hisses to her later on, whilst they’re elbow deep in the fridge searching for something to eat. Kiara pulls a brownie straight off the plate and into her mouth, not wanting to share any. JJ gasps in outrage, reaches past her to get one himself. It’s the last one, and he’s gloating as he pulls it out.

“Everyone knows girls don’t fart,” she informs him, and she steals the brownie straight from his hand and whirls around before he can snatch it back.

“I’ve been on bottom bunk from you and I can one hundred percent confirm that that is incorrect. I’m sure Pope would back me up, if I asked.”

“How dare you. I’m a lady.”

“Oh, Kiara,” he tuts, shakes his head. “You’re no lady.”

The context should not make her suddenly, unreasonably attracted to him. Make her want to push him against the counter. He’s stalking towards her as he says it, eyes dark. Smirking. Always smirking.

He’s close but not close enough. Still approaching. Kiara falls back against the counter, watches him. She thinks her jaw may have dropped, just a little. Fuck, Italy’s weed is strong.

Then he snatches the brownie from her hand, shoves as much as he can into his mouth. And she yells, “you little shit!” and chases him through the living room, up the stairs. Slams against the doorframe, even when he’s holding up his empty hands, his protests muffled behind the crumbs of the singular last brownie.

They hire bikes and cycle for four hours down Rome’s cycle path. Kiara tells John B that she has to keep JJ well exercised or he becomes destructive. He pauses from where he’s trying to challenge Pope to ride with no hands, yells _hey, I’m not some dog!_ and her responding _I’ve seen you in bars, you definitely are_ , but she’s smiling, bites back a laugh. John B’s gaze flickers between her face and the cycle path.

They have to upgrade their hatchback to a bigger car, so they can fit in all the parents. John B finds the image of JJ behind the wheel of a Toyota Sienna hilarious and takes approximately a thousand videos and pictures.

It’s a unanimous vote that Pope and Kiara are to pick the parents up.

“We’ll stay behind and cook dinner,” JJ tells her gravely. “Like we’re hired help.”

“I wouldn’t hire you to help,” her eyes are narrowed in suspicion at the matching innocent looks they wear. “You hinder more than help.”

“Rude,” John B grumbles. “But I’ll keep things in hand this end. You go have your family field trip.”

“Right,” she draws out slowly, and she’s looking between the pair. “Don’t get high or drunk, please. At least wait until they’re in bed.”

“I can’t believe they’re leaving me at the mercy of your driving,” Pope complains, buckling himself in quickly and taking a secure grasp on the handle on the roof. “If you kill my parents, I’ll never forgive you.”

This time they’re waiting in arrivals ahead of time. Her parents text her periodic updates. She keeps her eyes locked on the gate, anticipation and anxiety and nerves a heady cocktail.

It’s her mom who spots her first. Drops the handle of her luggage and runs the last few strides, wrapping her tightly in her arms. Kiara laughs, and then her dad drops his bag as well and joins them in a Kiara-sandwich.

“Oh, baby,” her mom has her face in her hands, fingers smoothing over her cheeks. “I’ve missed you.”

“Missed you too,” her throat’s thick and her smile still hasn’t dropped.

She shakes Mr and Mrs Heyward’s hands.

“Just Heyward,” Pope’s dad tells her, with a solid look.

“And I’m Yvonne,” his mom greets. “We’re so pleased to be celebrating Christmas with y’all.”

It’s jarring to be surrounded by adult chatter. Phrases like, “Kiara, Anna tells me you’ve been around most of Europe now. Where’s been your favourite?”

Heyward’s low baritone, “I’m half surprised that Maybank kid is still kicking. Keep expecting to have to fill in some paperwork at some point.”

She’s getting used to driving now, more decisive. Even if it’s the wrong decision everyone around her seems to respect it anyway.

The car falls silent at a few points, but Kiara tries to brightly gloss over them.

Pope chats easily about college to her parents. Kiara’s mom keeps laying a hand on her shoulder, squeezing her daughter. It’s a lot – she keeps catching her dad’s eye in the rear-view mirror. The adults have obviously met on the plane, the mom’s making small talk like there’s no tomorrow.

“Damn,” Heyward comments as they pull up at the villa. Kiara switches the engine off, suddenly self-conscious.

“It even has a pool,” Pope enthuses, and he’s sliding out the car and rushing to help with his mom’s luggage. Kiara briefly sees Mr and Mrs Heyward sharing a quick, snatched glance before they get out the car.

“This place is beautiful,” Kiara’s mom clasps her hands together, looks out over the vineyard.

“The terrace is really nice too,” Kiara helps by picking up the bag that’s closest. Typically, her mom has maxed out on her luggage allowance. Kiara bites back a retort about them only being away for a week. Her bag weighs half as much as everything her mom’s packed, and she’s been living out of it for months.

Kiara pushes the door open, yells, “we’re back!” into the house. The sliding door to the pool is ajar, the scent of chlorine filling the kitchen. Kiara can hear some splashing, John B’s bright laugh.

They pull the suitcases up to their rooms. Her mom enthuses over the view from their window, her dad comments that it is a surprisingly nice house. Pope must have rounded up JJ and John B, or they were drawn by the commotion, because they’re standing in the kitchen with towels around their necks, dripping water.

Kiara goes to reprimand them, is beaten to the chase by Yvonne, who’s bustling across the kitchen and saying “boys!” warmly. She pulls John B into a damp hug, who pats at her back, and then she pats JJ briefly on the shoulder. He’s stood behind John B, his shoulders set warily. “You better go get dressed,” Yvonne fusses. “Or you’ll catch your death in this weather.”

Rain has begun to drizzle gently against the windows. The kitchen, which had seemed spacious with just the Pogues, now feels too small. She can hear JJ and John B clattering around upstairs. A floorboard creaks.

“Drink, anyone?” Pope offers brightly, and he’s pulling the sleek fridge door open. “We have… apple juice, water, coffee?”

“Wine and beer,” Kiara adds, and then, “what?” defensively as her mom shoots her an aghast look. “The drinking age is eighteen here.”

“But it’s twenty-one back home,” her mom protests quietly, her eyes assessing Kiara in a way which says _let’s not do this now, in public_. “And it’s twenty-one for a reason.”

Kiara levers the cork out of one of the bottles of red from the villa’s owner. Is relieved that this one doesn’t stick, that she doesn’t have to beg one of the boys to help her out. Her mom watches as she pulls wine glasses from the cupboard. Big, cavernous glasses for red, because she read that in an article once.

“Anyone for wine?” she asks, pouring herself a glass. In her periphery, she sees her dad laying an arm on her mom’s arm. “It’s from the vineyard next door,” Kiara continues, lifting the glass to her lips. “It’s really good.”

“Maybe a small one,” Yvonne ventures into the spiked silence.

Her dad’s having a silent conversation with her mom as Kiara fills the glass and hands it over.

“Well, at least you’ve developed some sophistication,” her mom relents eventually, and Kiara hands her a glass as well.

They’re circling the kitchen and the living room when John B and JJ reappear. JJ’s jaw is set like he’s prepared for battle, and John B has his most charming smile ready for when anyone looks his way. Heyward’s accepted a beer, is talking to Pope in a low voice whilst Yvonne looks on in adoration.

Kiara’s mom circles the room, raises one hand to touch the paper chains. “I would have expected more tasteful decorations in a place like this,” she states and it’s idle, a passing thought.

“Me and JJ did them,” Kiara tries to remove all grit from her tone. Takes a sip of wine. Her mom looks over her, then over JJ.

“Ah,” is the only response, but it’s enough to adequately convey all that is unsaid.

Kiara’s made eggplant parmigiana for dinner from the recipe her dad sent over. Served with grilled lemon chicken, for substance. It’s cheesy, tomatoey and fried eggplant goodness.

They eat in the dining room, their numbers too great to fit around the small kitchen table. The boys traipse through with cutlery and glasses and plates. Kiara places the warm dish on a heatproof mat in the centre of the table.

Heyward says, “this is good,” approvingly, through a mouthful. Washes it down with a glug of beer from the bottle.

Kiara’s dad has swapped to red wine, nods approvingly. “Maybe a touch too much sugar in the sauce,” he critiques, and smiles as Kiara gasps theatrically.

“Maybe less cheese, next time,” her mom suggests. “It’s delicious but – we can’t all have your figure, Kiara. And you won’t forever.”

“Definitely not,” Yvonne smiles, pats at her belly. “Although I say enjoy it whilst you can.”

It goes perhaps as well as it can – John B answers questions about college, Pope draws JJ into a discussion about all the beers around Europe with Heyward. Yvonne and Anna chat superficially. Her dad asks Pope about his course.

JJ is quiet, watchful. Kiara can see his knee bouncing under the table. He jumps up to help her clear the plates. Balances several up each arm.

“Oh, I remember seeing you working the Country Club,” Anna states, as though the vision of JJ waiting tables has triggered some hidden, suppressed memory.

There’s silence. JJ’s eyes flick quickly from Kiara to Anna to John B.

“Well,” he drawls, and Kiara thinks this is the first time he’s been centre stage during the entire evening. “I suppose I do have them to thank for my many talents.”

It’s such a JJ comment – wry, sarcastic. Anna’s wine glass pauses in the air. Her dad lays a hand on her arm.

“Didn’t teach you how to surf,” John B smooths over easily, his gaze locked on JJ. “And you used to be the best at that.”

JJ looks away from Anna, tilts his head towards John B. “You finally admitting I’m the best, Routledge?”

John B grins back, but it doesn’t meet his eyes. “The key word there was _used_. I reckon you’re out of practice.”

“Nothing wrong with working at the Country Club,” Heyward’s voice is gruff. “Honest work. Good pay.”

“I agree,” Kiara’s dad nods. “A job can teach you many things.”

“Can pay the bills as well,” Heyward mutters, but Yvonne’s shoulders move and he winces briefly, like someone’s kicked him under the table.

The plates clatter against the side as she puts them down. JJ’s followed, carefully lays down his stack. Her mom has picked the majority of the molten slabs of mozzarella and left them on the side of her plate. Kiara stares at them before scraping them into the trash.

“Maybe I should have gone home,” she says into the trash.

She can’t get used to this silence – JJ’s still there, leaning against the counter and idly chewing on the bands of thread around his wrists.

“Maybe you just need to drink more,” he proposes, and she cuts him a look. He’s not smiled or made any outrageous comment for at least three hours. She wonders whether he’ll implode.

The beer bottle clinks as she pours it into a glass and chugs it quickly. JJ cheers quietly when she finishes.

“I’ve taught you well,” he says proudly, but he steps to the side when she reaches past him to the sink.

The parents are talking politely, superficially when they return. Pope brings out tubs of gelato from a supposed local supplier. They move into the living room; Yvonne swaps onto apple juice, Kiara’s movements become slower as she finishes her third glass of wine.

“I never had you down as a red wine drinker,” her mom tells her. She’s followed her daughter to the kitchen, stands and watches as Kiara navigates opening a third bottle.

“Thought I should probably grow up from beer,” Kiara tops up her glass when she holds it out. Her mom’s watching her, eyes soft.

“Oh sweetheart, you’ve definitely grown up,” her hand’s on Kiara’s face and she has to stop herself from flinching away, pushing her mom off. She settles for just scrunching her nose instead. “We’re proud of you.”

“Thanks,” she mumbles, and then because she can’t resist, “even though I used too much cheese?”

Her mom releases her chin. “Even though you used too much cheese,” she confirms, and they’re both smiling at each other. “Although you could have maybe dressed up a little.”

It’s said with a spark in her eye, a teasing tone. Kiara glances at her outfit. Wrecked, cut off jeans. A sweatshirt she thinks is JJ’s, sleeves pushed up to her elbows. (It’s definitely JJ’s, and she puts it back on top of his clothes pile every time they do laundry and steals it back once he’s worn it, so it smells of him.)

Kiara knows her parents love her. Knows it because they’ve beat their fists against the car door and begged her to stay safe. Knows it because they genuinely meant well when they sent her to the Kook academy. Even when her dad questioned her choice in company, choice in free time.

She also knows her mom wanted more children, but was unable to. That as a result she’s poured all her hopes and dreams into Kiara. It’s something that’s suffocating and oppressive, like she’s Atlas, keeping her parent’s expectations from touching the ground.

“How a woman dresses is not a measure of her worth, mom,” she says quietly. It’s familiar, well-trodden ground between them. Her mom wishes she liked dresses and the Country Club and dating. Kiara has brought precisely zero guys (or girls) back to the house – excluding Sarah Cameron, perhaps, but her parents hadn’t seen anything untoward about that.

“Kiara – that’s not what I meant.”

She wants to say _liar_ and _that’s definitely what you meant_ but the words stick behind her teeth. She settles for a vague smile instead; hopes it doesn’t look too manic.

Her mom had once been a finalist for Ms North Carolina. Had had to quit before the final pageant, upon the discovery that she was pregnant. She’d tried to enter Kiara into precisely one pageant when she was younger; her dad had come to her rescue whilst her mom tried to entice her into learning a fancy dance routine. He’d taken her surfing then, taught her how to catch her first waves. Her mom was blurry when they got back, stumbling. Said _she’s always liked you better_ to her dad, and it had felt like Kiara was in trouble without knowing what she’d done wrong.

Sometimes she wonders whether that’s why she’s gone so far the other way. As a spiteful dig. Shunning dresses and mixers and tennis at the Country Club.

Until her Kook year – her mom loved Sarah, loved that Kiara was going to house parties. Even tucked bottles of wine into her bed with a secretive smile and look, despite Kiara only drinking beer. Her mom seemed just as affected as her when Sarah stopped coming around, when Kiara reverted back to shorts rather than skirts and sundresses.

Coincidentally, it was the first time her mom said _when I was around your age I stopped having butter on my sandwiches. Empty calories._ Kiara doesn’t think it was a loaded statement. Just an easy, offhand comment. She hasn’t had butter since.

“I was thinking,” her mom tries again. “How about dinner tomorrow night? Me, you, your dad. For old time’s sake.”

The parents retire to bed early, citing time zones and differences. Yvonne clutches Pope, runs a hand over his head proudly. Hugs John B, pats JJ’s shoulder again.

Kiara collapses on the couch next to JJ, but keeps distance between them. He’s been spiky and quiet, unthawed. Sits and flicks his lighter, or pulls at his bracelets.

He gets up to get another beer and when he comes back Pope’s stolen his seat, is dissecting the evening with Kiara. Running through tomorrow’s itinerary for sightseeing. Instead JJ slumps on the floor at John B’s feet, passes him a beer. Kiara feels her shoulders relaxing minutely when John B hooks his knee idly over JJ’s shoulder, and JJ lets him leave it there.

They argue in the morning, when Kiara’s pulling JJ’s covers off and insisting that they’re leaving in the next fifteen minutes.

“Fuck off, Kie,” he complains in a low mumble, fingers clutching the sheets. “I’m not coming.”

“You can’t not go inside the Colosseum when you’re in Rome,” she complains, and pulls harder. “The Sistine Chapel.”

“I don’t even know what that is,” he points out, rolls over so he’s tangled in the covers. “I’ll just Google it. Seriously, me and John B will stay. Don’t want to ruin your family day.”

She says, “fuck, JJ, you are family,” and it’s exasperated and snapped and forceful. “C’mon.”

He’s opened his eyes, looks at her from between his eyelashes. “Not sure your parents will agree with that.”

“I don’t give a shit,” she’s still snapping, has moved on to pinching gently at his calves. “Get up.”

“Fine,” he throws one arm to the side, sighs heavily. “But only because you’ve begged. It’s not a very dignified look on you.”

They all cram into the van and she thinks Heyward mutters “thank God,” as JJ takes the wheel, Kiara navigating.

They go on a tour of the Colosseum and the Basilica. They’re not supposed to talk in the chapel, but JJ tips his head back to look at the ceiling and whispers, “holy fuck,” which earns him a slap on the shoulder and some frantic gesturing from Pope, who’s eyeballing the security guards.

JJ and John B tussle in the grounds of the Colosseum, hands slapping backs, arms around shoulders, waists, necks. Yvonne says, “boys,” and it’s warm and fond. They break apart and grin their apologies, as John B slings an arm around JJ’s neck, grinds his knuckles into his hair.

They stop for lunch, John B announcing grandly that it’s on him. JJ glances at Kiara briefly, says, “you better not order a salad in pizza-land,” blithely.

She doesn’t. Her mom does, and she wrinkles her nose at the grease when she steals a slice of her dad’s pizza.

They go for a swim when they get back. Kiara wanders down in her turquoise bikini which is admittedly a little small, but it’s the only clean one left. Her mom runs her eyes over her briefly, frowns lightly.

“Kiara – where’s that black costume I got you? You know, the one with…” she trails off, raises her eyebrows. Kiara hooks a finger under the strap of her bikini, pulls it straighter.

“Laundry,” Kiara explains.

“You can borrow one of mine – hang on.” Her mom starts to get up from the side of the pool.

Kiara takes three steps at a run and cannonballs in. It sends a wave over her mom, who shrieks, “Kiara! Really!” but can’t suppress the smile.

Pope hitches Kiara onto his shoulders, and John B keeps a tight grip on JJ’s knees. They grapple, Pope swaying as JJ tugs at her arm, her water-slicked skin sliding through his grasp.

Then Pope stumbles as John B knocks into him and she wavers once before crashing into the pool. She surfaces, crying, “cheat! You’re not supposed to go for the support!”

“All’s fair in love and war, sweetheart,” John B drawls. Kiara demands a rematch and is sent tumbling again less than a minute later – JJ drags her off backwards, arms around her shoulders.

Her mom’s been swimming around doing breast stroke and resolutely not getting her hair wet, head above the water. Until Kiara’s dad splashes her, smirking, and she gasps and tries to dunk him in retaliation.

Then she challenges Kiara to a game of shoulder wars. JJ’s closest, so Kiara ropes him in as support. Tries not to think too much as he ducks under the water, head between her legs.

He keeps his hands squarely on her knees, fingers tight on her skin. He’s fast and reactive; Kiara’s mom is too reserved, too noble. It just takes one well timed push to her shoulders and she falls, shriek-laughing.

JJ does a loud, splashing victory lap, Kiara clinging to his wet hair.

Her mom slips into her room later, once she’s showered. She’s just in her underwear and it shouldn’t be weird because it’s her mom and she’s just seen her in a bikini – but she still feels vulnerable, exposed.

Her mom’s holding some fabric in her hand. Holds out a dress. “I saw this the other day – I just thought, you’d look so beautiful in it.” Her eyes are earnest and wide and it’s been an excellent day so far, so Kiara takes it. Pulls it over her head. It’s green satin, mid-thigh with a tie around the waist. It is nice – expensive looking and feeling, as she rubs the material through her fingers.

She pairs it with her least battered pair of converses and her parka, because she doesn’t have a smarter jacket with her. Her mom looks at the jacket and the converse pointedly, but smooths a curl behind her ear and tells her she looks beautiful.

Maybe she should have realised it was a trap. Her dad drives the van and they’ve booked some niche, small Italian restaurant on the outskirts of Rome. Their server switches easily to heavily accented English, brings them bread and oils whilst they survey the menu.

“Don’t fill up on bread,” her mom reprimands offhandedly. “You won’t manage your meal.”

Her mom goes for salad to start followed by some grilled chicken. Kiara goes risotto then pasta, because they’re in Italy. Her mom comments, “oh, double carbs,” with a smile.

It goes well. They talk about Europe and her favourite and least favourite places. Her dad gives her updates about The Wreck, about the new pay it forward scheme he’s thinking of implementing. Having pre-paid meal tickets on a wall, anonymously donated, so if anyone’s short of cash they can still have a meal.

“I’m sure your friends would have taken advantage of that,” he comments, and it’s light, an attempt at humour. Kiara smiles indulgently.

The announcement comes during the pause between main and dessert. Her mom’s insisted _oh no, I really couldn’t_ but Kiara and her dad have ordered tiramisu. Her mom laces her fingers together, shoots a look at her dad.

“Kiara,” she begins, and Kiara can’t stop the spike in anxiety. “We’re so proud of you, and we’re so pleased that you’ve been enjoying yourself.”

“This definitely sounds like a shit sandwich,” she grouses, and she wishes she had something to do with her hands. Her mom ignores her.

“But, we’ve been thinking about the future. Your future. We know you don’t want to go to college at the moment-”

“Or ever,” Kiara adds quietly.

“So – we’ve been in contact with Le Cordon Bleu, in Paris. And they want to see you for an audition.”

“It’s a great opportunity,” her dad takes over, in a way that makes Kiara wonder whether they’ve rehearsed this. “They’re world renowned – some of the best chefs come from there. It’s an honour that they want to meet you at all. They only take and produce the best.”

“You’ll be learning a vital skill, even if you don’t want to develop it any further. It might even scratch that adventure itch you have, a year in Paris. You have your father’s talent for cooking – my mom used to say you should always play to your strengths.”

They both fall silent, watching her. Kiara takes a deep breath.

“Thank you,” she starts, and she thinks they already know her answer. She presses on anyway, in a weirdly formal way. “You have always supported me, or tried to get every opportunity for me. And I am grateful for that. I am. But – this is what I want to do. I don’t want to go to cooking school.”

They look unsurprised at her answer. Her mom steels her shoulders.

“Kiara – you can’t be on a vacation forever. You have to do something. We haven’t raised you just so you can drink and eat your way around the world with some _Maybank_ from the Cut – no,” her dad’s put a hand on her arm, frowned at her. She shrugs him off. “You think I haven’t smelt the weed, when he thinks we’re asleep? We’re not stupid, Kiara. We were young once as well. And this might seem like a wonderful idea now – lower drinking age, no responsibilities. But it’s not a valid lifestyle. It’s not permanent.”

“It’s been four months,” she grits out. “And you know fuck all about what I want.”

“Language, Kiara,” her dad reprimands softly.

“Yes, language,” her mom’s tone is cold. “Language, and smoking, and drinking. It’s what I would expect from your friends – but you? I thought we’d raised you better. I’d hoped we’d given you options, choices. Things your father didn’t have, things he’s worked so hard to give you.”

It’s the inferred blame, the disappointment, the expectation. “I didn’t ask to go to Kook Academy,” she tells them, voice low and hard. “You decided that. In fact, I asked every fucking semester not to go back. I worked in The Wreck and I got good grades – excellent grades, in fact. And that’s not enough for you. I’m never enough for you.”

Her dad breaks his silence, leans across the table. “You were _arrested_ , Kiara. You almost died. You were running around the island on some goddamn quest – there was a special force, looking for John B. Pope lost his scholarship, his ticket out of the Cut.”

Her jaw works furiously, clenching and unclenching. “But now Pope’s at college and I have enough money that I’m set for life. You don’t have to worry about my job prospects.”

“We’re just worried about you, sweetheart,” her mom interjects. Kiara moves her hand from the table to her lap as her mom tries to take it.

“I asked you to put yourself forward as foster carers for John B and JJ,” she says instead. “Or just one of them. John B’s literally an orphan – his dad was killed by a Kook, if you remember that. And JJ’s dad has used him as a living, breathing punching bag for sixteen years,” her mom’s gaze moves away at this. “And you said no. You said – you said, they were trouble. They were kids, mom. Kids without parents. They’re self-sufficient and can look after themselves but you still said no.”

“It’s not as easy as that,” her dad starts, pushes himself back in his chair. “You’re over simplifying things.”

“You grew up there, dad. You should know what it’s like. You always go on about it.”

A waiter’s hovering nearby, two plates in hand. Kiara grins at him, thinks it must be more than a little feral because he places them down with a quiet thud and beats a hasty retreat.

It’s creamy and delicious, and she shovels it into her mouth in big spoonful’s.

“We just want to see you happy,” her mom murmurs, her fingers linked through her necklace. “We love you, Kiara.”

“I am happy,” she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, places the spoon down on her half empty plate. “I am happy, and I love them, and they love me. And I’m eighteen. I have years to figure out what I want to do.”

“You were so happy, the first year at your new school,” her mom recalls. “With Sarah – you two were inseparable. I always wondered what happened between you.”

Kiara shrugs, looks at her plate. Reckons now’s not the time to inform her mom _oh, I fell in love with her and she figured it out. Yes, I like girls as well. By the way, I’m pansexual. No, that’s not about kitchen ware._ There’s only so much parents can take.

They stand outside once the cheque’s been settled. Her dad suggests going for a drink nearby. Kiara yawns exaggeratedly, requests they go home.

The drive back is quiet. Her mom leans around and squeezes her knee occasionally.

There’s a figure on the terrace as they pull up, the faint orange tip of a cigarette. Kiara jumps out the car and goes straight up there. JJ takes one look at her face and pulls out the packet of cigarettes, offers her one. Holds his lighter to the tip.

She drags deeply, frantically. JJ quirks an eyebrow, mutters, “woah, easy, tiger,” and drags languidly on his own near finished stub.

“They want me to go to cooking school, in Paris,” she tells him.

JJ frowns a little, gaze flickering away. “Paris sucked. And you already know how to cook.”

“I know!” she’s standing too close, much closer than socially acceptable. JJ’s not backed away. “And apparently I swear too much, now.”

“The worst fucking crime,” he drawls, and she pushes gently at his shoulder. Is tempted to leave her hand there. She lets it drop, because he’s not exactly been the most tactile recently.

The door opens and John B appears, saying “Jesus Christ I am about to fucking deck – oh, hey Kiara,” he stops for half a stride, then continues across the terrace. Holds a hand out for the packet of cigarettes. “How was dinner?”

He’s got a half empty bottle of beer in one hand. Kiara steals it, takes a sip.

“They want her to go to chef school,” JJ explains.

“Already got an interview lined up,” she confirms, and she takes another drag of the cigarette.

“Fuck,” John B says shortly, as JJ hands him the lighter. “You gonna go?” She’s silent, and JJ’s watching her from the corner of his eye. “I’m the walking, talking example of why college isn’t always the best option. You seem to have a pretty sweet deal going on right now.”

“I’m not going,” she settles, and she thinks she sees JJ’s shoulders relaxing, his chin ducking to his chest. But it could be a trick of the light. “I don’t even like cooking that much. Cooking for family and friends – cool, love it. For strangers? For food critics? Fuck that.”

“Your eggplant thing was definitely under seasoned,” JJ supplies, and he’s grinning and ducking out the way as she tries to shove at his shoulder. He falls against her instead, arm pressed to hers. It feels significant. She doesn’t move – swaps the beer and the cigarette to her spare hand.

“Was no one gonna tell me about this meeting?” Pope complains as he trips through the door. “I had to find out from Anna!”

“Aw,” John B hooks an arm around his neck, which Pope writhes to struggle out of. Kiara laughs, which makes bubbles rise in her chest, and she burps loudly, unexpectedly.

“Damn, Kie,” JJ looks impressed, nudges her shoulder with his.

John B gasps, scandalised. “Kiara! Decorum!”

“You and Pope had a competition two days ago,” Kiara points out, refusing to be embarrassed. “Don’t be a misogynist.”

Her mom passes across the landing, looks out at the terrace. Might see her, arm to arm with JJ Maybank, the cigarette burning down in between her fingers, bottle to her lips. Kiara hopes she sees them laughing – sees John B and Pope tussling, ending in a brief hug. JJ grinning, teasing, eventually teasing one of her curls between his fingers for something to do. Noticing she’s cold, so slinging an arm around her shoulders, pulling her flush to his side.

They stay long after their cigarettes are finished, languishing in the reprieve.

The next day is Christmas eve. Her mom wakes her up early, as is their tradition. They make gingerbread cookies and put them on the side to cool before they can be iced. JJ wanders in sleepily, barefoot and bare chested. Makes grabbing hands at one of the plates. Kiara snatches it out of his reach, kicks at his knees. He shoots her a mournful look before settling for a bowl of cereal, the obnoxious crunching filling the kitchen.

It’s not been the three of them without any buffer. It’s not been JJ and any parents without any buffer. He’s been careful to make sure John B or Pope are within reach for every interaction. His guard must be down, or his hunger won out. He chugs orange juice straight from the carton which Kiara tuts at. Slams a glass onto the table next to him pointedly. He grins at her, tries to trip her up when she walks away.

“So, JJ,” Anna starts, and both Kiara and JJ’s gazes snap to her. “How’re you finding your trip so far?”

It’s a generic enough question – safe, predictable. JJ shrugs a shoulder, spoons more cereal into his mouth. A drop of milk trickles down his chin. “Yeah, good,” he grunts, whilst chewing. “The food’s good – the beer’s even better. The company’s adequate.”

Kiara throws him a scowl, and he flashes a grin her way.

“And your favourite place…?” her mom prompts as she pulls the tubes of coloured icing from their box. Presses a finger into one of the cookies to test the temperature.

“Norway,” JJ decides. “Or that German place – mountains and shit-”

“Garmisch-Partenkirchen,” Kiara provides helpfully.

“-yeah, that one. That was cool.”

Kiara makes him go and put a top on before he’s allowed to help ice biscuits.

He snorts, “yeah, like you’re not enjoying the view,” and stretches his hands above his head, smirking at her. Like her mom’s not right there, like he doesn’t care if she hears. Kiara flushes, rolls her eyes. He comes back downstairs with a faded blue sweatshirt and the boy it probably belongs to.

Kiara puts a bowl of cereal into John B’s hands, because he’s useless in the mornings.

JJ gets icing everywhere – in his hair, on his neck, on his nose. He favours a block colour technique. Kiara attempts a tie-dye pattern on one of hers, but when she swirls the colours together it just turns into a brown smush.

“You wouldn’t get very far in Paris with presentation like that,” JJ critiques. She elbows him in the side, squints at his cookie.

“Yours looks like Frankenstein’s monster, so shut up.”

“Ooo, deflection. Nice. Doesn’t detract away from your poor, pathetic attempt, but good try.”

Pope ices with his tongue between his teeth. It doesn’t help his precision.

They go for a walk around the vineyard after lunch. JJ complains that he’s never felt Kookier, his bottom lip jutted into a pout.

They have swimming races in the pool – Kiara wins the women’s heat, even when Pope has to join them to even up the numbers. It’s a tight call between JJ and her dad, which surprises everyone but Anna who stands on the side of the pool cheering him on. JJ wins in the end – of course – but he’s saying something like, “damn, Mr Carrera, didn’t realise you could swim like a fish as well as cook them,” his chest heaving under the yellow pool lights.

Everyone’s tried to get JJ to call them by their Christian names but he always slips back.

In the evening, Kiara shuts herself in her room and wraps all her presents. Due to lack of space in her backpack, she’s opted for small, stocking presents. Has got a stocking for each of the Pogues and her parents. She’s wrapping them in brown recyclable paper when JJ wanders in with a plate.

“Don’t look!” she yells, and he slams his eyes closed. “Oh, my God. You can’t just go into rooms without checking on Christmas eve!”

He stands on a packet of candy as he navigates his way closed eyed across the room. Flops onto her bed on his stomach.

“I brought snacks,” he offers in mediation.

“I’m wrapping your presents,” she complains balefully, having covered them hastily with a discarded sweater. “You can’t be in here. It’ll ruin Christmas.”

“I won’t look,” he promises. “Don’t make me go back downstairs. Yvonne keeps trying to mother me,” he shudders.

She ties a scarf around his eyes to ensure he can’t see. He says, “are all your dreams coming true right now? Finally having me at your mercy?” as he lies on her bed, chunky knit secure around the top of his face.

“Oh yeah, never been more attracted to you,” she deadpans as she starts wrestling with the tape once more. Finishes wrapping all of his first, pushing them into the cheap fabric stockings she’d purchased in bulk from the supermarket when her and her dad had done the big Christmas shop.

He pulls off the scarf when she tells him she’s done with his. She can see him eyeing the stocking in anticipation. Makes a mental note to hide it somewhere he can’t find it.

He’s surveying the rest of the gifts, spread out on her floor. “No wonder your bag’s so heavy.”

It’s nice, companionable. JJ scrolls through his phone, or makes fun of one of her present choices. Helps her wedge all the wrapped gifts into the too-small stockings. It’s a welcome sanctuary from the constant pressure of having to host or entertain, despite the fact that the adults are definitely more than capable of amusing themselves. It’s no one’s house, which means it’s no one’s territory, and no one’s stepped up to the role of lead host.

She lies down on the bed next to him, and he yawns like a cat and presses his face into her elbow. Her stomach clenches and she waits for thirty seconds before she raises her free hand and slowly drags her fingers through his hair. He makes a noise in his throat, something like a mew, which makes her grin.

His breathing deepens, gusts across her skin with each exhale. She keeps dragging her fingers through his hair. Her door opens, and Pope slumps against the doorframe.

“Your parents are asking about you,” he whispers. Then, “he’s not been sleeping well.”

Kiara nods briefly, doesn’t still her hand. “I know.”

JJ always looks younger when he sleeps. He looks particularly young now, cradled by her elbow, a hand curled into the covers.

Pope leaves quietly. Half an hour later her mom stands in the doorway. Kiara slides her eyes open, catches something on her mom’s face – something raw. Then she smiles. “It’s midnight. Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

Kiara’s voice is thick with sleep. JJ hasn’t shifted and her arm’s gone dead but she’d rather stick needles under her toenails than disturb him. “Merry Christmas, mom. I love you.”

“Love you too, honey.” She leaves the door ajar. Kiara thinks it’s pointed.

Kiara wakes up a few times in the night. JJ’s shifted, but his hand’s on her waist, his forehead against her shoulder. It’s reassuring, having someone else in the room again. The silence is less deafening. It makes her think of JJ’s tinnitus, the ever-present inescapable ringing. It makes her sad, makes her brush a hand across his upper arm. He shifts, pushes his nose closer into her shoulder.

When she wakes up in the morning, he’s gone. She’s drawn downstairs by the smell of frying bacon. JJ’s at the stove, and Heyward’s talking quietly to him.

“Yo,” he greets, as he slides bacon from the pan and into a dish.

“Sleep well?” she asks innocently, pulling orange juice from the fridge.

JJ looks at her briefly, calculatingly. “I did hear someone snoring.”

“Probably Yvonne,” Heyward comments, scratching at his chin. “She’s like a steam train.”

JJ and Kiara share a look, brows quirked up and lips pressed together.

Bodies trickle into the kitchen sleepily. John B’s eyes still look glued together. Yvonne chirps, “Merry Christmas!” and clutches everyone to her robe clad chest. Even JJ, who pats vaguely at her back and looks shellshocked when he’s released. He retreats to Kiara’s side, muttering something under his breath about _fucking women_ but he doesn’t look too aggrieved.

Anna pops open a bottle of champagne and Kiara gasps. “Mom! What about the drinking age?!”

Her dad tops the flutes up with champagne, winks at his daughter. “C’mon Kie, it’s Christmas.”

“It’s not even nine o’clock,” but she’s taking a glass anyway. Heyward squints at his suspiciously; JJ tips his down his throat in one smooth motion.

Everyone stands around in the kitchen with plates in one hand, forking eggs and bacon into their mouths. Mike compliments JJ’s egg making, and he doesn’t even sound too sarcastic when he chirps, “thanks. Means a lot, Mr Carrera,” back, around a mouthful of said eggs. “Although Kie was the one who taught me. Before her all my eggs stunk of rubber and tasted like ass.”

“They did,” Pope confirms. “Worse than ass, I bet.”

“I don’t know,” her mom’s poking at some eggs. “Ass is pretty bad.”

There’s silence, and then JJ cackles gleefully. Pope blinks owlishly, but Heyward laughs.

“Mom!” Kiara snaps in horror, her face flushing bright red. “Oh my God.”

The Pogues are all herded into the living room. Kiara’s brought all of her gifts down and arranged them around the tree. There are several others, all of different sizes. She’s not usually allowed to open them until after lunch, during the usual Carrera Christmas. Yvonne seems to be insisting that they open them right away. Kiara wonders whether there’ll be any tension, but her mom is snapping a towel at her dad’s back in the kitchen, hips swaying to the music John B’s playing through a tinny speaker.

Heyward and Mike get into a good-natured argument about the correct temperature of the oven for the meal. The boys are roped in to help peel potatoes and carrots. Yvonne, Kiara and Anna recline on the terrace with mimosas, overlooking the vineyard. It’s cold and there’s a black cloud on the horizon, but they fold the blankets over their knees.

“This is the life,” Yvonne enthuses, and Kiara’s minded to agree.

Once dinner preparation is sorted, they’re allowed to open presents. Heyward fusses about having a trash bag ready for all the paper, so it doesn’t get mixed up with gifts. Kiara hands her stockings out first and tells them to open them together, because most things are the same. They’re filled with candy, or Belgian chocolates, or a special beer from Amsterdam she thinks her dad might like and a copy of the handwritten macron recipe. There’s a mini bottle of champagne from their tasting course for her mom; a piece of the Berlin wall for Pope. John B has a specialist wooden grinder from Amsterdam with a constellation of stars engraved into the top.

JJ laughs as he unwraps a Juul with several different flavour cartridges. He’s lying on the floor, so she nudges his thigh with her toe. “To save your lungs,” she explains, and he’s smiling at her.

“Pope broke mine, the dumbass, so thanks.”

She’s given Mr and Mrs Heyward a box of authentic Belgian chocolates, so they don’t feel left out. Yvonne’s prised the lid off and is sampling them gratefully. Pope tries to sneak one and she slaps his hand away.

The Heyward’s get JJ a sweatshirt and some thick socks – Yvonne explains to Anna that he’s always stealing Pope’s clothing, and although she says it with a roll of her eyes, it’s fond.

The sweatshirt has _JJ_ stitched into it in small letters on the front. JJ runs his fingers over it in wonder.

“So you know it’s yours, son,” Heyward grunts, and then he’s pulling himself out of the chair. “Beer, anyone?”

Her dad presents everyone with a year long voucher for the Wreck. It’s wry and amusing in a way that makes her laugh, and she stares at her dad in shock.

“Well, that’s date night sorted,” John B says in satisfaction.

“Is there any expiration date?” JJ considers the distinctly homemade voucher. “Can we start it when I get back?”

“When do you think that’ll be, JJ?” Yvonne asks politely, and Kiara can feel JJ’s eyes on her from the floor. Eventually he shrugs.

“Whenever I get bored, I guess. Not much at home with everyone else at college.” It’s honest and everyone is aware of the meaning and gravity behind the words. JJ scrunches paper in his hand and throws it towards Heyward who deposits it into the trash bag.

Her parents have got her a delicate rose gold necklace with a constellation. Her mom watches her unwrap it carefully.

“Cancer, right?” she checks, and Kiara smiles. Kicks at JJ’s side and lifts her hair so he can latch it around her neck. It takes three attempts, his fingers clumsy on the thin chain. It sits below her beads, bright against her skin.

“Nice,” JJ comments, and he’s throwing himself on the floor and back to assembling his Juul.

After the last gifts are unwrapped, everyone disperses. Heyward and Mike retreat to the kitchen to check on dinner’s progress. Yvonne and Anna fuss around the table, even go into the garden and collect some greenery to go in a glass in the centre.

Pope gets under his dad’s feet, stirs at things on the stove. John B Facetimes Sarah, his laugh muffled behind his closed door.

After fifteen minutes of scrolling through social media looking at everyone else’s present hauls and picture-perfect Christmases’, she hunts JJ down. He’s sitting on his bed staring blankly at the wall, phone to his ear. Periodically he lowers it, hangs up, and redials. He’s got his new sweatshirt across his knees, one hand running over the embroidery.

She raps her knuckles against the open door, and he neither dismisses nor acknowledges her presence. She lies across his bed, plucks the cigarette from behind his ear. Only it’s actually a joint, and he looks at her briefly when she shoots him a scandalised look.

Finally, after the fourth failed attempt with her in the room, he doesn’t redial. Kiara shuffles across the bed, drapes her arms around his neck. He doesn’t move.

“No emotions,” he reminds her, even as her lips graze his neck. He shudders briefly, like he’s suppressing something deep. Takes the joint from between her fingers. She knows she should protest, should say no with the parents around. But it’s Christmas and he’s still staring blankly at the wall, trapped in his head.

Instead, she cracks the window open and climbs out. The terrace is damp, like it’s been raining lightly. It’s weirdly grounding, as she flexes her toes into the coolness. JJ follows and they slouch onto the rain sprinkled couch, the damp soaking through the seat of her jeans. JJ takes the first toke, inhaling deeply.

It’s one of the weakest he’s rolled, like he was only intending it for himself. Like he’s put a limit on his own consumption. All it does is take the edges off.

There’s silence, because JJ can never be rushed. Kiara just ensures her arm’s against his in comfort.

“Heyward says he’s seen him around,” JJ says eventually. “So I guess he’s still alive. I figured someone would come knocking, if he died. I’m still his son, right?”

She leans her head on his shoulder and he doesn’t push her off, but doesn’t wrap his arm around her either. “He won’t die. He has the survival instincts of a cockroach. All Maybank’s do.”

He looks at her then, smiles a little, although it’s empty and hollow. Wraps an arm around her shoulder. “I don’t hate him. I still don’t hate him, even though I should. Am I completely fucked up?”

He tastes of beer and marijuana when she kisses him. Exhales gently into her mouth, his hand moving to her hair. She breaks it off, keeps her face close to his. His eyes are glassy but not red rimmed. He’s not high but he’s not sober.

“You’ve gotta stop trying to crawl into my pants at any sign of emotion,” he tells her, and he’s shifting his shoulder so she falls back and he can drag at the still-burning joint.

“It’s my kink,” she grins, and she’s standing. “Wait here. I’ve got you a present.”

She returns with a rectangular box and hands it to her. He’s looking at it, frowning. “You’ve already got me something,” he says in confusion.

He tears the paper off anyway, slides the lid off the box. Inside are two boots, the exact same brand, model and size as his current pair, minus the peeling soles. He pulls them out of the box.

“They’re discontinued, so I could only get second hand,” she tells him apologetically. “But that means they’re already broken in, right?”

He’s smiling at them, putting a hand inside them. Makes them kick at her face, knocking her chin gently.

“Uh, thanks,” his voice is several octaves lower, hoarse. He clears his throat. “I’ve got you something, actually. Couldn’t wrap it though. Hang on.”

There’s the sound of him opening the door, disappearing inside. He tells her to close her eyes and hold out her hands. She knows instantly what it is as soon as he places it down, her hands curving around the neck and body instinctively.

The ukulele is dark wood, lightweight.

“I’ll carry it,” JJ says quickly, because her main objection about bringing hers was the extra weight and space. “It’s just a cheap one – can put it on the outside of bag. Probably makes it more authentic, if it’s roughed up a bit.”

She places the ukulele to one side, hooks her arms around his neck and buries her head into his neck. It takes half a second before he curves his arms around her in response, holding her tightly.

“Found you!” John B says triumphantly from the doorway. He still has his phone aloft, Sarah’s voice through the speaker. “Kie, Sarah apparently wants to speak to her favourite Pogue.”

Kiara takes the pro-offered phone and the ukulele and shuts herself in her room. Sarah opens with a rundown of the other day in the bar. Scoffs _that asshole_ through her teeth. Kiara shrugs, tells her JJ got him back. Then she chats through the day so far, saying how weird but also weirdly well it seemed to be going. Sarah asks what she’s got and she touches her necklace and lifts up the ukulele. Sarah gives her a significant look.

“John B tells me you and JJ are _close_ ,” she waggles her eyebrows.

Kiara rolls her eyes. “Kind of inevitable, when you’ve been living just with each other.”

Sarah gets called away after another five minutes. “Sorry, Kie, got to go, that’s dad on the phone and he only gets half an hour.” Their goodbye is rushed and harried, but Kiara thinks she understands. She wanders out to find the terrace empty. Everyone’s downstairs with fresh drinks. JJ holds out a beer, already uncapped, as she passes.

JJ declares _this is the best Christmas ever_ when presented with a table full of food. He eats without breathing, shovelling in seconds, thirds, countless potatoes.

Her mom does say, “moment on the lips, lifetime on the hips, darling,” as a quiet aside to her during dinner, but Kiara doesn’t let that ruin anything.

They all collapse into the living room, complaining loudly. After twenty minutes Kiara persuades them all into a game of Pictionary from a battered box she’s pulled from the dresser in the corner. It’s in Italian, so she Googles a random word generator and works off that.

Her and JJ get split up onto separate teams after she draws one squiggled line and he correctly guesses it first time as the sea.

It’s drunker and significantly louder than any other Christmas. John B cranks up the speakers and plays ABBA. Yvonne does a pitch perfect rendition of _Does Your Mother Know_ , dragging each one of the Pogue’s up to dance with her during each chorus. Heyward looks disgruntled but also slightly amused at the antics.

JJ and Kiara are sent to get the gingerbread cookies from the kitchen.

“I prefer Christmas,” JJ tells her, arranging the cookies on the plate in a practiced way. “Over Thanksgiving.”

“Aw,” she teases. “Is it ‘cause you loooove your Pogues?”

“Yeah,” he admits, and he doesn’t look at her as he speaks. “Something like that. Though I dunno why, ‘cause you’re all assholes.”

She gets a text an hour later from Sarah requesting she gives John B a hug. Her head jerks towards her friend in shock. He’s on a couch next to JJ, a space between them. He’s chewing on his thumbnail and as she watches, JJ glances up from his Juul at him.

JJ shifts to the side as she walks over, dropping into the too-small gap between the pair.

“Hi,” she says brightly, and she throws an arm around John B’s shoulders and musses with the ends of his hair. He turns into the contact, his shoulders relaxing downwards.

After five minutes he says, “my dad would have loved this. He loved Christmas,” in a quiet voice, so he doesn’t disturb everyone else watching Love Actually on Netflix. JJ hears – of course he hears – and he reaches behind Kiara to press a hand to John B’s shoulder. John B smiles thinly, stares at his hands.

Her mom corners her in the kitchen later on, drunk and demonstrative. Says earnestly, “we just love you so much Kiara – we just want to you to be happy.”

“I am happy, mom.”

Her mom’s folded her into a hug, rubbing her back, stroking her hair. “I know, honey. I can see that now. I just – I don’t think I wanted to believe it. But these boys, they make you happy. And you make them happy.” She smile is watery. “Even that Maybank kid – he’s not so bad.”

Kiara can see that Maybank kid over her mom’s shoulder in the doorway, one eyebrow raised towards them. “Nah, he is a little shit,” she says casually, watches him smirk.

“But he’s your little shit,” her mom sniffs, swipes away a tear. JJ’s smirk has dropped, now he’s just looking.

“Yeah,” Kiara agrees. “My little shit.”

They play poker, and Kiara thinks she’s doing well. Then she has to fold, pouting about it. JJ and Heyward are left, shit talking each other across the table.

“I know what you’re about, son,” Heyward quirks an eyebrow. “You’re all talk.”

There are just enough plastic tumblers in the cupboard to set out beer pong formation, and Pope pulls the balls from somewhere.

“College,” he explains, as he sends them bouncing across the table. They teach the parents the rules. Yvonne shocks everyone by nailing almost every throw, blowing on her nails after she lands each one.

Finally, they drop off one by one. Pope, having shot gunned a beer with his dad, gets carried up the stairs by Heyward and JJ. Her parents accept defeat and stagger upstairs, pressing kisses to the crown of her head on the way past. Yvonne and Heyward are next. Pope reappears, swaying, collapsing across John B and Kiara, head in her lap. Kiara strokes his hair, his forehead. JJ’s head knocks against her legs from where he’s sat on the floor next to her. Knocks again, purposefully, until she strokes his hair as well.

“Well that wasn’t a disaster,” she surmises, and everyone makes sleepy noises of agreement. “I am almost shocked, but somehow we pulled it off.”

“Alcohol,” JJ nods. “Lots and lots of alcohol.”

There are empty bottles everywhere. Kiara hums. “God bless alcohol.”

They drive the parents back to the airport three days later. The Pogues all stand in a loose group, the children with their respective parents, John B and JJ to one side. The Heyward’s pull them into their group hug, Yvonne patting their shoulders, their backs. Kiara can hear her saying, “look after yourself – no, really, JJ – I expect at least twice weekly updates. Don’t make me have to message Sarah and Kiara for updates.”

“We’ll always be at home,” Kiara’s mom tells her, voice earnest. “Whenever you want to come back. As soon as you’re not happy, or it’s not fun.”

“I know,” she’s tearing up but doesn’t want to; pushes a smile onto her face. “C’mon, you’ll miss your plane at this rate.”

There’s another round of goodbyes, more hugging. JJ links an arm around Kiara and Pope, holding them tight, watching them disappearing off towards departures.

“Jesus Christ,” JJ says, once they’re suitably out of hearing range. “Am I allowed weed now?”

Pope hits his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all your comments - on tumblr, on here, wherever. they are so appreciated.
> 
> also - to everyone who's relating to any of the topics covered - there is always help, if you seek it out. much love. feel free to drop me a line if you ever want to shout or vent or just have someone listen.


	9. rome - venice - florence.

*

They get high, and then Pope says mournfully that he wishes he could have seen more of Italy. JJ and Kiara share a look over his head. Remind him that there’s a whole week left. Look up train tickets – there’s a high-speed train to Venice.

They book the tickets, and two twin rooms in a city centre hotel. Pope looks admiring.

He’s less admiring at half six the next morning, when they’re packing. Kiara pulls sweatshirts, socks and a pair of boxers from under the couch in the living room. Pope vacuums briefly, puts bleach down the toilets and straightens the covers on the beds. John B has to be frog marched to the bathroom to shower.

JJ ambles around, attempting to eat the contents of the fridge. He straightens out furniture and scrubs at a splash of red wine on the wall from beer pong. Pulls down the paper chains and drags the Christmas tree outside, dropping pine needles all over Pope’s freshly-vacuumed floor. Pope grouses _are you fucking kidding me_ and shoves a handful down the back of JJ’s shirt.

Kiara stands for a moment on the terrace, looking out. She can hear JJ cussing faintly, wrestling with the zip of his over-full backpack. He has his new boots on his feet and his old ones attached to the outside of his bag by their laces. She’s beginning to learn he has trouble saying goodbye.

JJ drives fast to the car rental place, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, forearms flexing. They throw the keys over the counter, trip and talk over themselves. An employee offers them a lift to the train station, saying they’re dropping a car that way. They all pile into the tiny car, bags on knees, Pope obsessively checking the time on his phone. JJ pulls a pine needle from his pocket and flicks it at Pope’s forehead.

They pull up outside and then they’re all running – her bag bounces on her back, she can see the dark wood of the ukulele on JJ’s up ahead. The signs are all in Italian and JJ slows to a jog, throws a look at her over one shoulder.

She has to get the tickets from the booth. The woman has enough English to get by, but is painfully slow as she tears each one from the machine and pushes them under the plastic screen.

“This way!” Pope calls, and they’re running again.

“This bag is not built for this!” John B yells, as he clutches the leather holdall to his chest and dodges an elderly woman. They run down the escalator – Pope’s foot misses one of the steps and he tips forwards, but JJ’s hand snaps out, hauls him upright again by the collar of his jacket.

They jump onto the train and the doors don’t slide shut immediately, which is anticlimactic. They don’t close for another ten minutes, which John B complains loudly about, between ragged breaths. All of their brows are damp and they strip off jackets and sweatshirts, breathing heavily.

They have four seats, two either side, facing each other. JJ sits opposite, stretches his legs obnoxiously into her leg room.

“I can’t believe this train is going to take three hours,” John B grumbles. “I thought Europe was small.”

Pope immediately sets about Googling things to do in Venice, muttering to himself. He pauses halfway through calculating timings on Google Maps and writing an itinerary on his notes. JJ and Kiara are sharing a look.

“What?” he asks defensively. “Isn’t this what you do?”

JJ shrugs a shoulder. “We just kind of do what we want. Look up a few things, yeah, but what if you’re really tired tomorrow morning?”

Pope flashes his screen towards JJ. “We won’t be tired tomorrow morning, because we’re going to bed at half ten tonight.” JJ groans, tips his head back against the headrest.

John B falls asleep because he has an uncanny ability to do so wherever he is. Pope pulls his cap over his face and slumps against the window. JJ’s legs keep getting in her way wherever she puts her feet. Eventually she pulls off her shoes and throws her feet over his knees.

He pushes at them, but doesn’t push them off. Says, “gross, Carrera. Do you even wash?”

But his thumb ghosts over her heel, then digs into the arch of her socked sole. Her eyes fly open and her mouth drops open and she thinks _fuck_ and stares at him. He does it again, and she has to bite her lip in case she does anything ridiculous like moan or demand more. Her toes curl and she wonders who taught him that, as he presses again, hands firm and warm. She wants to send them a thank you card, maybe some flowers.

He’s not looking at her, shoulders back and head against the seat. He’s looking past John B and out the window instead, but there’s definitely something pulling at the corners of his lips. He stops after a minute and she digs her toes into his thigh in protest, but he doesn’t start up again. Crosses his arms across his chest and shuts his eyes.

It doesn’t last – twenty minutes later he’s pushing her legs from his lap, demanding snacks. Shaking a packet of paprika chips under her nose. She bats them away, but he just returns, ever-persistent.

“Did you even have breakfast?” he chides, and she snaps and takes a handful just to shut him up.

They play Bullshit, using John B’s knees as a table. The cards keep slipping off so they have to slap their hands onto them quickly.

It’s a mile walk from the station to their hotel, and her converse get damp from rain-soaked sidewalks and start rubbing at her heels. JJ bounds from side to side on every bridge, pointing at boats and buildings. There’s an Amazon delivery guy and he has all the parcels on a specially designed trolley with two sets of wheels so he can heave it up the steps of every bridge over the water with minimum effort.

Pope babbles about the lack of cars and breaths in elaborately deeply, exclaiming over the air quality. John B swats at JJ as he stands on the heels of his shoes, tripping him.

The hotel has white shutters and a door which creaks shut behind them. A woman is drawn out by the commotion, by JJ slamming into Pope’s hip, by Pope staggering, exclaiming, “JJ – shit,” as he overbalances into John B.

The woman has grey hair and Kiara can almost feel her own joints aching in empathy as she opens the thick leather-bound book and finds their booking. She mutters under her breath in Italian, one swollen jointed finger tracing the page. Finally, she shuffles away and returns with two ornate gold keys with room number scrawled on them. Waves a dismissive hand at Kiara’s muttered _grazie_.

JJ takes the stairs two at a time, repeating the room numbers loudly. Stops before a door.

“Shotgun not with Kie,” John B steps away from her smartly. “She snores.”

Kiara flushes, glowers. “I do not-”

“You so do,” John B barrels onwards. “And this is my vacation, so I’m taking Pope.”

JJ’s looking at John B and Pope. “Dude. I thought this was a democracy. This isn’t very democratic.”

“And I _don’t_ snore,” Kiara adds, pushing JJ aside so she can unlock the closest door. She tosses the other key to John B, who snatches it from the air.

“I mean,” JJ tilts his head. “You kind of really do.”

Kiara turns her frown on Pope, who’s been studiously silent. Raises an eyebrow, one hand perched on her hip. He squints a little, looks at the ceiling. “Pope?” she prompts.

“Uh,” he stalls, and he backs away a step. Coward. “I mean – it’s kind of cute.”

JJ snorts in disbelief. “Cute if you like a drill to your head, maybe. Whatever floats your boat.”

Kiara opens the door and marches in, muttering under her breath about _ungrateful fucking assholes_ and how she _needs them like a hole in the head._

The room is surprisingly nice. The walls are painted a dusty pink, and there’s a balcony just big enough for one person to stand on. It overlooks the canal below.

She runs the tap in the bathroom whilst she pees, because although JJ knows about bodily functions it still makes her self conscious that he’s just the other side of the thin wall. The sink has two separate taps for hot and cold, which always irritates her. She has to wash her hands quickly between the two, alternating between freezing cold or boiling hot.

“I hate non mixer taps,” she complains as she emerges. JJ’s stretched out on the bed closest to the door, boots hanging off the end. Kiara stopped protesting about him wearing shoes on beds weeks ago, especially because he’ll just point out that technically his boots haven’t even touched the covers. “Who wants the choice between freezing cold and boiling hot when there’s one perfect temperature right in between? I swear they’re all just masochists or something.”

“It’s to do with the plumbing, or some shit,” he informs her. He’s got the travel guide from Heyward open, is squinting at a page. “Apparently in Greece you have to put all your toilet paper in specialist trash cans ‘cause their plumbing’s fucked.” Kiara’s staring at him in disbelief. It’s all explained when he says, “Pope was looking it up,” because of course Pope would take an interest in European plumbing and although JJ feigns disinterest, he’s weirdly able to retain a lot of useless information.

“That boy has issues,” she decides. “I mean – plumbing?”

“He was looking up something about canals or some shit, I don’t know.” He stands, stretches one arm across his body, forearm hooked around his elbow. “I think I’d rather freeze than boil.”

“Oh, definitely. If you get cold enough you go insane and take all your clothes off. That’s way better than boiling.”

“Although, if you boil in a volcano your death might make the news,” he muses. “Could be worth it.”

“You would have to find an erupting volcano in the first place, though.”

“Pope would find one,” JJ says confidently.

“He would – but he’s definitely not going to let you throw yourself in. Pope wouldn’t allow you within ten miles of an active volcano, probably because he definitely thinks you’d throw yourself in.”

Pope’s leaning against the wall of the corridor outside, turning towards them as he hears his name.

“What now?” he queries.

“Can you find me an active volcano?”

“You are not going anywhere near an active volcano,” Pope rebukes immediately. “You’d definitely try and touch lava, and that shit is untouchable.”

“Good story to tell,” JJ’s gaze slides to John B, who’s locking his room door. Kiara checks the handle of her and JJ’s, just in case. “I could be Lava Boy, or something.”

“Lava Boy infers some sort of control over lava – not just a dumbass who put his hand in lava,” Pope dismisses. “It would literally turn into ash. And be extremely painful.”

John B’s looking between them all curiously. “JJ wants to stroke lava,” Kiara explains helpfully.

“Hey – I never said stroke,” JJ protests, as they start moving down the hall. “I just said it would be a cool death. Kiara wants to freeze to death.”

John B’s quiet, and it takes Kiara an embarrassing three whole seconds to realise why. She takes his hand, squeezes it.

“The call of the void,” Pope is informing JJ as they clatter down the stairs. “It’s what you call the weird, destructive urges you get – you know, like the temptation of throwing yourself off the train platform, or thinking you could jump off a cliff when you stand on the edge.”

“Oh, I get that with water,” JJ pulls open the door and lets them all file out onto the sidewalk. “Always want to jump in.”

“But you _do_ always jump in.”

JJ’s grin is bright. “JB – you’re always saying I shouldn’t ignore calls. And the water calls me.”

“It’s call of the void, not answering the void,” Pope chastises.

“Potato, potato.”

They go for a late lunch because JJ keeps whining about being hungry. The boys all order bowls of pasta; Kiara opts for grilled chicken. There’s bread on the table to start but she’s learnt by now that hunger may be painful, but it’s never permanent.

She goes to the bathroom. As she’s walking back, JJ’s got his palms flat against the table, talking quickly to John B opposite. Cuts off when he sees her. His jaw’s tight and his knee knocks into hers when she sits back down. He jerks it away, glares at the wall.

John B pays and they all leave. JJ and Pope fall through the door first; John B holds it for Kiara. She should probably make some comment about being able to hold the door open herself, thanks, but she’s too busy frowning at JJ’s retreating back.

“Why’s JJ got a stick up his ass?” she asks John B, stepping aside as the path narrows and a pedestrian comes the opposite way.

“Kie,” it’s solemn. He’s drawn to a stop at the top of a bridge. Rubs at his chin, chews at his lip.

“What?” she demands abruptly, and her heartrate’s increased, her jacket suddenly feeling too small, too thick, too much. Maybe JJ wants to go home. Maybe he’s had enough of this – of whatever she’s been trying to do, trying to achieve. Maybe he’s sick of her. Has sent John B in to break the bad news – classic JJ.

“We’ve always kinda thought but – JJ’s concerned – and Pope’s done some research – and, ah, fuck,” Kiara’s staring at him uncomprehendingly, and he’s not looking at her, more looking at her shoulder. Chewing his lip and eventually releasing a gust of air through his nose. “Do you have an eating disorder?”

“What?” she snaps, reflexive, “no!”

“It’s not a big deal if you do. I know – I know Sarah gets weird about things sometimes and she always wants to look a certain way, and JJ says you skip meals and always give him leftovers and you’ve lost weight-”

“He’s just annoyed ‘cause I make him eat vegetables.”

“-and we won’t judge you, Kie. But JJ said he heard your mom saying some fucked up things at Christmas and – you’re fine, you don’t need to do any of this-”

“I am so glad I have your approval,” she snaps icily. Wraps her arms around herself.

“Look, Kie – I get it. Social media and media in general and it must be overwhelming-”

There’s no way he could get it.

There’s no way he could see post after post and know logically that they’re airbrushed but wanting it anyway. No way could he watch films and TV series, actresses with their glossy hair and thigh gaps and stomachs that fold instead of rolling. Clavicles beneath skin, fine bone structure. No way he could understand that she hates herself for feeling good when people look at her. When she walks along the beach and eyes flicker – self-satisfaction sits heavily behind her breastbone.

There’s a voice in her head, constantly, and it sounds a lot like her mother. When she looks in the mirror. When she has to breath in to buckle up her shorts. When there’s bread on the table or a hollowness in her stomach.

She thinks they’ve only kept her around this long because they have all liked her, at various points. A like which is firmly grounded in physical attraction. Maybe now she’s truly their friend – but after her Kook year? She was just some girl in a bikini, someone to joke with, someone for JJ to make some inappropriate comment about, for her to be faux-offended and knock him back.

Her role in the friendship group has been carved out by virtue of her being a woman. She’s the caregiver, the nurturer. And she doesn’t mind, most of the time. Thinks maybe she loved them long before they loved her. John B, for his kindness and his adventure. Pope, for his logic, his level-headedness, his dependability. JJ, for his humour and his sarcasm and wildness.

They wouldn’t have looked at her twice.

“Shut the fuck up,” she says instead. There’s not much else she can think of to say – she can’t blame him, can she? It’s not his fault. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Kie – look, we love you, c’mon,” he doesn’t try and come closer – he hovers, uncertainly. “Sarah says that-”

“Oh, what does Sarah Cameron have to say? Does she think maybe you should ditch me, just like she did?”

John B blinks twice, pauses. “Kie,” he says, low and quiet.

Kiara wants to say _fuck you._ She wants to say _I warned you about her, and now she’s leaving you for dust_. Wants to say _I know my place, let me keep that._

His shoulders have dropped, he looks over her head. “Can you just maybe be more aware?” he tries eventually, as though resigned to the fact he’s not going to get her to acknowledge anything. Because there isn’t anything. “You’re walking loads and doing – I don’t know – fucking swimming, and hiking and shit. You need to eat more for that.”

She says, “fuck you,” and spins on her heel and walks.

She hears, “Kie!” and footsteps getting closer. JJ pulls at her shoulder and she turns, pushes at him. Pushes at his shoulders again. There are tears in her eyes and he falls backwards, looks hard at her.

“Fuck you,” her voice trembles with the words, spat through her teeth. “You don’t know jack shit.”

The streets are quiet as she storms. Over bridges, down alleyways. Finds herself in the centre of St Marks square. The Basilica towers above her as she looks at it. The sun is sinking slowly into the horizon, the shadows long on the flagstones. All the stores surrounding the square are lit up with Christmas lights; there’s a huge, triangular display of a Christmas tree, a star on top.

Eventually (after she’s had two coffees in a shop and ripped the sugar packets to shreds), she searches for JJ’s location on FindMyFriends, because Pope always tries to make sure it’s turned on. They’re in a bar half a mile away. Kiara navigates back across the bridges and through alleys. Christmas lights are reflected in the water of the canals now darkness has consumed the city.

The bar is more of a restaurant-come-bar. There are chairs and tables on the street, people sitting bundled in blankets overlooking the canals. She can smell the mango scent of JJ’s Juul before she sees him; he’s frowning at his phone, Juul idle upon his lips.

He looks up as she stops in front of him. Slides his phone back into his pocket, waits.

“Sending John B to do your dirty work is low,” she tells him, but her tone’s neutral.

JJ tips his head to the side, looks like he’s assessing her mood. “He’s used to it.” There’s silence again. “The others are inside.”

He blows a whole lungful of mango vape towards her purposefully. She closes her eyes. Opens them. “I know. Wanna go home?”

“What?”

“Do you. Want to go home?”

“With you?”

Her chin juts up in challenge. “Well, we are sharing a room.”

“A room,” he repeats. He looks to the canal behind her. To the door of the bar. Tucks his Juul in his pocket with finality. “Okay.”

The silence stretches as they walk to the hotel. JJ looks at her halfway back, says, “you know, you’re really hot when you’re angry,” and she is tempted to push him into the water. “In a spicy, murderous way.”

They get to the room and JJ’s watching her, standing still, watching as she toes off her shoes, pulls off her jacket. As she locks the door. She stands with her hands on her hips, glowering.

“Do you have a condom?” she asks.

“I appreciate the sentiment,” he chirps cheerfully, “but the delivery? That’s what’s throwing me off.”

He watches her walk across the room. Or maybe stalk. She’s not precisely sure.

“I feel this situation lacks romance,” his tone is dry.

Kiara puts one hand on his shoulder, testing. He doesn’t move away but doesn’t move towards her. Just watches.

“This is a bad idea,” he tells her, but his hands have moved to her hips and his thumb has found the smallest sliver of bare skin where her top’s ridden up. A callus on his thumb drags across her skin harshly and she wants to drop her head back and gasp.

“Okay,” she says, and drops her hand. His hands tighten on her hips, hold her in place as she goes to move backwards.

“I’m no stranger to bad ideas,” he reminds her. Finally, finally, he’s bending his head, pressing his forehead to hers. “Some may say my life is a string of bad ideas.”

His lips are chapped and he’s unreasonably warm. She knows this. He tastes of beer and his Juul mango nectar cartridge. He smells the same – Axe body spray, the fancy laundry detergent and softener they used at the villa.

Things she didn’t know: he’s handsy. It’s not entirely unexpected. But his hands are _everywhere_ – in her hair, around her neck, a thumb on her chin, pulling her mouth open so he can bite at her lower lip, so he can curl his tongue into her mouth. The other is on her waist, pulling her to him; on her lower back, under the band of her bra.

He’s potentially a talker. Mumbling _fuck, Kie_ brokenly against her neck, nipping the skin of her jaw; pressing kisses to the pulse on her throat.

He backs her up until her knees hit his bed, until the only option is down. He barely breaks contact; crawls over her – knees either side of her legs, hands either side of her head. He pauses then, considering. Kiara doesn’t like it. Pulls at the back of his shirt; he sits up, raises his arms obediently. Crowds right back against her.

He’s been above her like this before – climbing out the hammock, whilst wrestling on the sea-sprayed floor of the HMS Pogue. But never with pupils so blown they’re only rimmed with the faintest of blue; never with a flush staining his cheekbones; never with his chest rising and falling disproportionately quickly, considering the comparative lack of exertion.

She wriggles her hips, smirks as he moans. “Fuck,” he says again.

“Yes,” she takes them hem of her sweatshirt in her hands, if he won’t do it. “That’s the plan.”

He pulls off her sweatshirt. He’s looking down at her – the black lace of her bralette, her bare skin. Anxiety curls in her stomach and she hates being so seen, so she unbuttons his jeans, his zipper. Pulls them halfway down his legs and he kicks them off the rest of the way. Curls one hand behind her neck and kisses her again. Settles his hips against hers, holding his weight off her with his elbow.

“Condom,” she commands, and she rolls her hips upwards.

“What’s the rush?” he drags his lips across her ear and she tries to hide the shudder, the responding arousal. Is unsuccessful, judging by his smirk.

She reaches between them and palms him over his underwear. His jaw drops and he exhales against her collarbone; a hum catches in the back of his throat. And again. He peers through blonde eyelashes, presses a kiss to her shoulder.

“Fine,” he relents, as her hand moves again and his hips jerk in response. She misses the weight of him immediately as he gets up, goes to crouch in front of his backpack. Instead of analysing anything she wriggles out from her jeans, drops them to the floor.

He could have had some sane thought whilst rifling through the contents of his washbag for the familiar silver foil. He’s standing nearly naked, very prone, and he still says, “last chance,” and waits for a beat.

“JJ,” she snaps, “I swear to God-”

He cuts her off, bites her lip. Wraps a hand into her hair and pulls gently at the strands so she tilts her head back, allows him to nip and kiss from her jawline to her shoulder. Further, lower, until she puts a hand in his hair and pulls him back up to meet her.

“JJ,” she growls, because one hand is ghosting her side, then the band of her underwear. Over her underwear, in feather light touches that aren’t doing anything but frustrating her, making her want more, more.

“Just making sure,” JJ smirks, and he kisses her again, drags his teeth across her shoulder. “Sex ed always said when a girl and boy really like each other-”

“Do not bring fucking sex ed into this.”

“Why not? This whole trip has been an extremely educational experience for me. Your sexual awakening, my educational awakening.”

Fuck, she hates him. He’s pushed her underwear aside deftly, has his eyes on her as he pushes one finger into her, then two. Fuck, she’s never going to look at those rings the same way again.

She says “JJ,” in a gasp against the skin of his forearm.

“I know,” he says, and he’s smug, even as she’s pulling at his shoulders and his hair, even as she’s pulling at the band of his boxers, not even caring that it’s frantic and unbalanced and way too fucking eager considering this is now JJ Maybank, naked on a twin bed in Venice – JJ Maybank, tearing a condom open with his teeth – JJ Maybank, pulling her underwear down, pausing for a long moment that she does not like, does not need. JJ Maybank that falls against her, who catches himself on his elbows at the last minute, who runs a callused thumb across her lips and smirks when she snaps at it.

It’s JJ Maybank who grins, who drops his chin to her shoulder as though to hide it, because she’s gasping and rolling her hips against his because he’s too much and not enough, all at once. Wrapping her legs around him, her heels on his thighs. It’s JJ Maybank’s hand on her knee, adjusting the angle, which makes her head snap back and a moan build in her throat which she honestly does try to bite back.

Then he calls her _Kiara_ and _babe_ and she moans louder, pulls his head up by his hair, bites messily at his bottom lip, at his throat, groans against his pulse point. She can’t look at him for too long, can’t get stuck in the idea that this is JJ, who’s chanting _fuck_ and _Kiara_ and _fuck, you feel so good_ who pauses and says conversationally, “we should have done this years ago,” until she hitches her heels into the dimples of his ass and says _get the fuck on, asshole._

He mutters, “yes ma’am,” and moves in a way that makes her arm fall across and off the narrow bed, makes her press her cheek into the pillow and close her eyes.

She thinks she might even come, which is new – penetrative has never made her before. It’s like he can read her mind, because he keeps the same angle, the same thrusts, the same weight. Says _c’mon, babe_ to the skin behind her ear, which definitely shouldn’t turn her on, shouldn’t make her gasp and moan and tremble and finally relax enough to allow herself to give over to the pleasure. She buries her face into the crook of his neck, so he can’t make fun of her come face, and he fucks her through it anyway, his breath hitching, a hum or a moan catching behind his teeth.

Kiara runs her nails down his sweat-slicked back and his gaze snaps to hers, a furrow between his brow. She’s tempted to kiss it from his face, to lean on her elbows and wrap her arms around his neck and cradle him against her chest; run her hands through his hair. But instead his hips are stuttering and his forehead drops to hers, his arms suddenly shaking.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters, his eyes closed, his breath short puffs across her lips. Her legs are still wrapped around him and their skin is connected down the length of them, rapidly drying sweat gluing them together.

The weight of him is hardly oppressive. But she’s claustrophobic and reality hits harder than anticipated. She think she can hear Pope’s low baritone through their shared wall and it makes her want to flush, to hide.

He hasn’t moved, still has his forehead balanced against hers. They’re breathing the same air, exhaling and inhaling. Kiara turns her face to the side.

“I need to pee,” she tells him, which makes him shift. He slumps to one side, then runs out of bed, eyes slamming open as one arm shoots over her to grab at the mattress to stop him falling – his hand slams past her arm on the way to anchor himself. “JJ!” she snaps, and he turns overly innocent eyes on her as she scowls and rubs at the spot.

“Oh, you just want me to fall do you-”

“You’re hardly going to die-”

“We have a sweet, tender moment and you just want me to _fall-_ ”

He leaves his arm over her, has his chin tucked onto her shoulder. She thinks his eyes are closed, his breaths evening out. Makes a small hum in his throat that sounds something like contentment.

She gets up and quickly gropes for a t-shirt from the floor. Pulls on JJ’s. She’s aware of his gaze on her back as she pulls the shirt down over her thighs, as she rifles through her backpack for clean underwear.

“Don’t get dressed on my account,” he tells her lazily, and he has one arm behind his head and is looking at her. “Think I’ve seen enough, by now.”

She slams the bathroom door behind her as she disappears into it. Has to open it again, because for some reason the light switch is on the outside. He’s smirking at her reappearance. Still hasn’t moved.

She runs the taps whilst she pees and brushes her teeth. Splashes water on her face, which runs down her forearms and onto her feet. She scrubs at the puddle with her bare foot, takes deep breaths. Realises she’s delaying the inevitable and so yanks open the door. JJ’s gaze flicks up from his phone. He locks it, puts it on the bedside table. There’s a space next to him on his narrow bed, like it’s something purposeful. He’s pulled his boxers back on, but nothing else. Looks like some reclining Greek Adonis.

She gets into the other bed, the sheets cool on her bare legs. “So. We should probably talk about this.”

“Or we could not,” JJ proposes, and he’s shifting into the space, looking at her. “I mean, it was kind of inevitable. The way you look at me.”

Her jaw drops, her eyes narrow. “If you hadn’t tried to _massage_ my fucking feet-”

“Oh, you have a foot fetish now? Jesus, Kie-”

“Or if you weren’t putting ideas in my head twenty-four fucking seven-”

“You did kiss me in Copenhagen. And then in Rome.” She grinds her teeth together, glares at him. “It’s fine, Kie. No Pogue-on-Pogue macking, remember?”

“Bit past that stage now, JJ.”

He grins and gets up. She hears him pee then brushing his teeth, tapping a rhythm into the floor with his heel. It shouldn’t make her feel fond. It does anyway.

He opens the door slower than JJ Maybank has perhaps ever opened a door before. Like he’s tentatively revealing something. But it’s just him, rubbing a hand over his chin, his hair mussed and his lower lip swollen and red. There may be a bruise blooming on the juncture of his shoulder and neck. She focusses on that.

“It doesn’t have to be weird,” he says, and his face has that look he gets, the one she sees before he fights. Blank and braced. Like an armadillo; curled up to protect himself.

“It’s not,” she says, but it tastes like a lie.

“Sure.” His eyes don’t look at her, but past her. His lips twist into something that might pass as a small smile but looks more like a grimace. “’night, Kie.”

It takes her a while to fall asleep. She fixates on his breathing, know he’s not asleep. Tries to think of something to breach the silence. Thinks of him, head tilted, muttering _this is a bad idea._

Loud, persistent banging wakes her up. JJ grouses “what the fuck,” from his bed and makes no attempt to move. Kiara stumbles sleepily to the door, pulls it open. Pope pauses, mid-knock.

“You’re not answering your phones,” he explains. His eyes flicker over her. Over JJ’s t-shirt, over her bare legs. He looks behind her, then steps back. Kiara steps into the space, pulls the door shut.

“Look, Kie, it’s none of my business,” he starts, falteringly. This whole scenario is not something she is glad she’s walked into – the guy she used to kind of date, the obvious connotations of this scene, the way her and JJ disappeared unreasonably early. JJ must have text one of them or something, because she hadn’t had any missed notifications when she’d checked this morning.

“Damn right,” she mutters, pulling the t-shirt further down.

Pope carries on as though she hasn’t interrupted her. “But be careful, with JJ.”

Kiara scowls. “I can look after myself, thanks.”

Pope fixes her with a look. “It’s not you I’m worried about.” Before she can decipher that he’s holding out a bag. “Breakfast,” he explains, then backs away. “Be ready to leave in half an hour?”

She leans her head back against the cool plaster of the hallway wall and collects herself for five seconds before pushing the door open again. The air of their room smells of sweat and sleep. JJ’s eyes are still closed, but he’s halfway out of bed, like a wave of exhaustion caught him by surprise and pinned him back to the mattress.

Kiara slaps at his knees. He catches her wrists, pulls her towards him. She resists and he lets her go, pouting a little.

She leaves him eating whatever goods Pope’s purchased, lying flat on his back. He tries the door handle whilst she’s in the shower and she shouts “the fuck, JJ?” as he walks in.

“Kie, I really gotta piss,” he explains, and he’s lifting the toilet seat before she can protest. She looks the opposite way and scrubs determinedly at her hair, grateful for the shower curtain that separates them.

The water runs icy cold immediately as he flushes, and she shrieks and pulls the curtain back viciously. He pauses, one hand under the tap.

“Don’t flush, asshole,” she snaps, which is definitely a mistake, because he flushes three times in a row and cackles every time she shouts in protest. Until she clambers from the tub, shampoo in her hair and water dripping everywhere, until she’s pushing at his shoulders and demanding he gets out _right fucking now before I ram this shampoo right up –_ and he’s backing away, hands raised, saying _damn Kie, never seen you so wet. Oh, wait-_ and she’s slamming the bathroom door right in his smug, stupid face.

She sneaks in whilst he’s showering and flushes the toilet, the gratification sharp as he shrieks several octaves higher than she thought possible, one hand reaching to rip the curtain back and glare. She tries not to stare at the casual nudity – tips her chin at him and waits, one hand on the flush as the cistern slowly fills again.

“Don’t you dare,” he threatens.

She leaves the bathroom but leaves the door ajar. Waits until he’s relaxed once more, is humming some nonsensical tune. She makes her entrance obvious, clattering her toothpaste and brushing her teeth vigorously. He keeps peering around the curtain warily.

She flushes on the way out, laughs as he shrieks. “That’s for using my shampoo!”

He complains he’s hit his head during the Incident. Kiara parts his hair to check, presses her nails into his scalp. There’s no mark or bump. She’s tempted to press her lips to the crown of his head; tugs at the strands instead. She’s standing between his knees and he has a hand curved around her waist.

“All clear,” she declares, and steps away, because he’s peering through his eyelashes at her and has no right to be looking at her like that.

They follow Pope’s itinerary for the day because it feels like they’d be kicking a puppy if they didn’t. He ticks off all the major tourist sites. Insists on a ride on a gondola. JJ holds out a hand for her to steady herself as she steps from jetty to boat; his rings press into her knuckles and she tries not to sink into any flashback of last night.

Pope and JJ descend into an argument about who would make a better gondolier. Their gondolier looks on in amusement, interjects in accented English that he’s trained for eighteen months to get his licence, that they’re all descended from gondolier families. Oh, and he’s multilingual. English, Italian, Spanish. Passable in German.

They all blink at the statements.

“I’d still be better,” JJ asserts. “Have you seen Pope’s driving?”

Pope heaves a bone-weary sigh.

They take a ferry to Murano, a nearby island specialising in glass blowing. Pope tells them how all the glass makers were forced to relocate after fires from the foundries, and the threat to Venice’s bridges which had been constructed out of wood at the time.

She has to pull John B and JJ back by the collars of their shirts as they run their hands over one of the glass sculptures displayed in the street.

There are windows into foundries, showing a glass worker in action. The heat inside the small room is oppressive, makes her hair stick to her neck. The worker uses metal tongs and rods and red-hot glass. Pulls shapes from the molten ball. Kiara stares, transfixed.

JJ says _babe_ twice to get her attention and it barely registers with her, but it does with John B. He raises an eyebrow at her, which she ignores. He falls back as if to catch her off guard, but she derails her with a question about Sarah and he nods solemnly and falls into a monologue about how they’d kind of talked, a bit, how he knows he needs to properly and he will, when he’s back.

She orders pasta and tries not to panic as they all not so subtly watch her. Has to escape to the bathroom and fight the panic and the bile that threatens to singe the back of her throat. Her nails dig into her palms and she breaths in the bleach tinged air and pushes it all back down. Plasters a smile on and swallows the penne whole.

“You can’t just force feed me,” she hisses to JJ. She’s sitting on her bed with her back to the wall; has her hands around her knees, pulls them to her chest.

“We’re not,” his tone is marred by confusion, his brow pinched. “We just went to a restaurant.”

“Yeah, but you would have said _Kiara_ and been disappointed if I hadn’t ordered anything big,” she wipes a hand across her upper lip, presses her chin to her knees. “That’s not going to solve anything.”

“Oh, right.” A pause. “There’s something to solve now, is there?”

She’s learning he’s not the only one that wants to come out fighting when cornered. Although her approach is verbal rather than physical.

She turns her back on him instead and goes to sleep.

They go to Florence the next day, because apparently Google tells Pope that it is the place to be for New Year. All of the Plaza’s around the city come alive with entertainment – orchestras, jazz bands, an aerial show in front of a church. They watch as the performers spin on the end of wires. Pope flinches every time it looks like they may fall, fingers inches away from each other, but always catching one another.

There are marching bands and light shows illuminating the sides of ancient buildings. Fireworks go off at midnight and she smacks kisses to all of the boy’s cheeks. JJ catches her hand, spins her away. She slides a snatched glance at John B and Pope, who are hollering and hugging. Shouting “Happy New Year!” to everyone in the vicinity.

“Happy New Year,” she tells JJ, and his hands are on her waist, then cupping the base of her skull. His lips are on her cheek, brief and rough.

“Happy New Year.”

The Airbnb is city centre with two double rooms. There’s no discussion about what formation the group is splintering into. Kiara wakes up with JJ’s even breaths landing on her neck, inches between them. Like he’s reached for her in the night but drawn up short.

They go to the world-famous Uffizi Galleries, which she should have known was a mistake. JJ loses interest first, trailing from room to room and looking at old paintings. Then John B. It becomes a chore rather than an enjoyable excursion. Other visitors cast them dark looks as they jostle each other, or rate the paintings out of ten. There are plus marks for any nudity; minus for too many penises. Pope points out the discrepancy in their marking criteria.

Kiara finally loses patience when she snaps, “Jesus Christ, behave,” because JJ’s tripped John B and he windmills frantically over a velvet rope hung purposefully to keep guests from threatening the priceless paintings. Pope captures his arm and pulls him back.

JJ mutters, “alright, mom,” sulkily and John B smirks at it. Kiara stomps from the room (in a quiet, respectful, cultured way).

It’s just Pope who meets her in the next room, as she stares at a marble statue. He tells her they’ll meet them outside and she’s simultaneously annoyed and relieved.

JJ’s spiky and abrasive when they meet up. Keeps raising eyebrows and smirking when she suggests something. So much so that she pulls him to one side, glares at him.

“What’s up with you?” she demands, and presses a finger into his shoulder when he tries to sidle past. “JJ.”

He begins to glare, softens it to a shrug. “Nothing.”

“In that case, stop being a dick. Many thanks.”

She thinks maybe she understands later on, when they’re making arrangements to go back to Rome in time for the flights back to the USA. JJ’s squashed himself onto the loveseat between John B and Pope despite the alternative seating arrangements. John B pats at his knee.

He’s restless – kicks her awake twice in the night. At the third time, she snaps the light on and sits up. JJ shrinks from the sudden brightness, draws the covers over his face.

“You can go back,” she tells him, even though the words stick in her throat.

“What?” the word’s muffled by the covers. He pulls them down. Squints. “What?”

“Tomorrow. If you want to. You can go back home.” He’s still squinting. “I don’t – you don’t need to stay.”

He’s sitting up, frowning. “Do you want me to go back?”

No. No. She likes the way he smells and the way he finds the weirdest things to do. How he throws an arm around her shoulders and wakes her up on train rides to appreciate the view. How he’s carrying around a ukulele because he knows she misses it. (She likes the way he kisses, too – the way he feels. The potential that weighs heavily whenever their gazes catch.)

They’re all selfish reasons.

“It’s your choice,” she says instead, neutrally.

“But what do you want?”

It’s the way he says it. The way he doesn’t look at her. The blank look on his face. The fact it’s 3am and she can’t sleep without him breathing near her. The fact they’ve slept together and it’s weird but not horrendous.

“Stay.”

He lies back down again. Sighs loudly. “Well, if you insist.”

They rush to catch the train and Pope practically hyperventilates the whole way back. He checks their tickets and departure times a thousand times. Kiara and JJ leave them boarding a bus to the airport. JJ clings to John B and then Pope in alternation, his chin digging into their shoulders. John B holds him just as tight, mutters in a low voice. Pope pats at his back awkwardly.

JJ stands close as the bus pulls away. Kiara thinks he wipes at his eyes but she doesn’t look at him until his hand moves away from his face. Eventually he clears his throat.

“Where next?”

She pulls the backpack from the floor and onto her back. “How about Greece?”


	10. rome - greece - croatia - budapest.

Kiara’s never slept with a friend before.

If she’s going to be honest, she’s not really slept with many people. Three and a half, precisely.

Four and a half, now.

Historically, she’s not really had much interest in anyone or anything, nothing which inspired her to literally bare all and be so vulnerable. She’d thought – maybe with Sarah Cameron. She wouldn’t have minded if Sarah had kissed her. Wouldn’t have minded if Sarah had wanted to do anything more.

She used to think that maybe Sarah had sensed that. That she’d pulled away purposefully, as though Kiara’s thoughts spilled from her mind and scrawled over her skin. That Kiara _liked_ her, that when Kiara was kissing some Kook guy’s cousin at a house party, his hands tight on her hips, she had one eye on Sarah and her then-boyfriend. Kiara had rationalised it to herself at the time – maybe she was just being a good friend. Definitely not imagining it was her crowding Sarah against the counter, definitely not.

She’d lost her virginity that night after two more shots of tequila, her arm linked around Sarah’s as they threw the liquid back. Sarah had licked salt from the dip in her shoulder, pressed candy pink lips to her neck and Kiara had smiled and laughed along with the assembled crowd.

The boy had kissed the same spot, later on, and she’d felt nothing.

Her and the Kook’s cousin slept together twice more that summer to try and ease Kiara’s curiosity. It was fine – some things were enjoyable, some things weren’t. Then he’d gone back home and she’d promptly forgotten about him apart from the weird, screwed up face he made.

The next time had been six months later, after she’d crawled back to the Pogues with her smallest bikini top and an entire keg, smiling over the threshold. John B had stared, a slice of overcooked pizza in one hand. JJ drawled _look what the cat dragged in_ because she’d been standing on the porch for ten minutes trying to muster up the bravery to knock. Right until JJ’s bike had pulled onto the dirt drive, until he uttered sarcastically _well, well, well, what do we have here_.

It was quiet, just JJ and John B. JJ stood at her shoulder, arms crossed, hostility in every tense line.

“I heard about your dad,” Kiara pulled out a bag of weed, looked from beneath her eyelashes. “I’m sorry.”

JJ had muttered _fuck sake_ as John B swept her into a hug, as his eyes became misted. JJ’s boots were loud on the porch, the screen door slamming behind him. John B had pulled at his hair and looked bereft and heartbroken, smaller, dimmer. She’d hugged him again, pressed a kiss to his head. He watched as she bustled around the kitchen, rinsing out glasses, setting the keg up on the cluttered kitchen table.

JJ was smoking, lying on a branch next to the hammock. John B and Kiara collapsed into the fabric, John B making some comment about how _Kook year’s treated you well, Kie_ and the nickname is easy, familiar, enough to excuse the eyes flickering over her hair, her chest.

JJ was silent. Conspicuously so. Ignored the glass of beer Kiara held out to him.

“Just like that?” he demanded of John B after a minute, when there was a pause in conversation.

John B looked at Kiara, smiled his warmest grin. His eyes crinkled, freckled cheeks shifting. “Just like that.”

JJ made a disbelieving noise, exhaled into the sky.

There’d been a party at the Boneyard. John B had hitched the half-empty keg on his shoulder, JJ trying to pour a drink as they tripped over the shifting sand. There’d been music, as always. Too much exposed skin and dancing and fraternising with all corners of the island – Tourons, Kooks, the Cut locals.

Kiara had said hi to a few Kook Academy attendees. Those that were ambivalent to her newly found snitch status, anyway. When she turned, JJ was watching. Had his hand curled over the knee of a girl next to him, but he was watching impassively, like Kiara was turning back precisely into who he had expected her to, right in front of him.

So she’d danced with a Touron, someone anonymous. Taken them back to the Chateau. Had emerged in the morning unembarrassed, Pope’s eyes widening as the boy trailed out behind her. He’d stuck around for a glass of water, declined breakfast, then slipped out the door.

JJ was still facedown on the pullout, but he muttered _damn Kiara, didn’t know you had it in you_ and she’d smirked easily and said _oh, I definitely did last night_ and high-fived his extended hand on the way past.

Then it was Pope. Who only counts for half. Because united grief is not much of an aphrodisiac; because there were no boys allowed in her room, and the door was strictly to remain open at the Heyward’s. Because JJ was always at the Chateau and they couldn’t just exile him from the only place he’s ever reliably been at ease.

She also thinks they didn’t try that hard – there was beaches, the boat, her car. Sneaking around at night. It was just easy not to. Between Pope’s anxiety about breaking any more laws, jeopardising his scholarship opportunities. The _I think we want different things_ conversation was awkward and stilted, but she could finally breathe and look at him without feeling guilty. She’d always known he’d liked her more. She loved him; loved his knowledge, his sarcasm, his loyalty. But he wanted dependable, he wanted college and ambition and great things. It weighed on her.

Then there was Emily. Which confirmed some things, rejected others. Girls were completely different. Good different.

And now JJ Maybank is another notch in her short bedpost.

She is under no illusions that she is the latest in a very long line of his conquests. Has had the displeasure of overhearing several encounters. Seen him in the Boneyard, tanned skin and white flashes of teeth. Looking at girls through his eyelashes. She never sees the same girl more than twice. She’s made small talk in the morning, offered them breakfast, JJ pulling a face at her where they can’t see.

It’s not like she expected anything to come of this.

Most of the time, she thinks she’s compartmentalised it.

Until he adds _Let’s Get It On_ by Marvin Gaye to the playlist, joined together by the wire of Kiara’s earbuds. Stares at the seat ahead, lips pressed into a thin line as though physically holding back the smirk or the grin. She glares at the side of his head for the entire four minutes and fifty seconds of the song. It gives her a chance to look over his profile. The silver scar through his eyebrow; the bump in his cupid’s bow from one too many split lips. The dip in his nose from a break.

Her gaze drops to his hands. The bracelets banding his wrists, frayed and lightly chewed. The rings on his fingers. There’s one she’d bought as a joke – the wooden one on his thumb. A gift from a street peddler in New York. The mixed metal had turned his skin green, so she’d painted clear nail polish around the inside to try and stop the reaction. He hands it to her periodically so she can renew it.

The song is purposeful and intimate and she can feel her ears flushing. Refuses to succumb to it, because then he’s won.

Of course, the asshole’s chosen the deluxe, extended version.

After the final chord there’s silence, the playlist ending.

“That song lasted longer than you did,” she snipes, and busies herself with swiping through Spotify for her next song selection. JJ finally looks at her.

“I beg to differ.”

“Then beg.”

“How about next time we play it, and then we’ll see if there’s any truth in that statement.” 

Kiara rolls her eyes at the confidence, the assumption. (She doesn’t lack foresight to realise that there is a likelihood that it may happen again, at some point. Law of probability and all.)

Her gaze has fallen to his hands once again. He’s tugging at the bracelets on his wrist idly, running a finger under them, pulling them away from his skin.

The train to Lecce is only five hours, which is a dream compared to their cross-continent excursion. But there’s a gap left by John B and Pope. JJ puts in his own earbuds and slouches away from her, watching episodes of something on his phone. Kiara slumps against the seat and dozes lightly for a few hours. Gets woken up by JJ’s hand on his knee, him squinting at the neon display of the location.

“Think this is it,” he gathers things from around them. Litter and his travel guide. Kiara scrambles, sleep blurred, tries to listen in vain to the disembodied Italian voice over the tannoy.

JJ pulls her bag from the rack and holds it up for her to wriggle the straps up her arms; strap them over her hip securely. She jumps from the train and JJ’s right behind her. The station’s smaller than the majority of the ones they’ve visited so far. A gust of wind rushes across the exposed platform, buffering into them. It’s not that late, but the light has already faded.

The bus station is all the way across town. They take a taxi, their bags crammed onto the middle seat between them. It’s a long, stalling ride, getting stuck in commuter’s traffic. They play rock paper scissors as to who has to approach the ticket counter. Kiara wins, knocks her fist into his bicep in weary triumph.

“One bus a day,” JJ reports back, “and we’ve missed it. Next one is tomorrow morning. I think,” he squints down at the paper, offers it to Kiara. 13:34 is scrawled haphazardly across the back of a receipt.

She books them two beds in a six-bed dormitory. Due to the fact it’s January, the hostel is mostly empty. There’s only one other bunk claimed, a sweatshirt on the pillow.

JJ claims a bunk and Kiara takes one a bed away. Their elbows knock as they negotiate their bags into the lockers. Kiara has to use her foot to lever hers in. JJ extracts the ukulele, tosses it onto her chosen bunk. Kiara soon follows, flopping onto her stomach, pillowing her head with her arms.

After half an hour JJ gets bored and complains he’s hungry. On the verge of sleep, Kiara tells him to fend for himself.

“I’ll get takeout if you play two songs,” he barters.

“No. I don’t even want takeout. No songs.”

He sighs. “Fine. One song. And I’ll get something with vegetables.”

Kiara sits up. “Half. And vegetables, no meat.”

“Kie. I’ve been carrying that thing for days. At least play it.”

“I’m not a performing mule,” she complains balefully, but she’s already cross legged, strumming the strings and twisting the pegs to ensure it’s tuned properly. Plays _You Are My Sunshine_ at warp speed, because it’s the first song she learnt all the way through. JJ knows better than to ask her to sing; that’s something reserved for when she’s alone, or under the influence.

He musses her hair as he passes; she ducks out the way with a scowl.

JJ’s gone for almost an hour. Kiara keeps playing, tests her voice in the empty dorm. Stops every time she hears anyone moving outside the room. It’s good, grounding. Stops when JJ slams the door back open, his hair curled and damp, his boots tracking footprints across the dorm’s laminate floor.

He tosses something wrapped in foil onto her bed, throws himself down on his with the rest of the bag. She unwraps something which looks and smells like a falafel wrap, accompanied by copious lettuce and tomato slices.

“Just so you know,” he says idly, as she’s staring at the bottom half of her wrap and debating whether she actually needs this. “If you don’t start sorting your shit out, I’m telling your parents.”

Kiara looks up to him slowly. He’s watching, chewing on his own wrap of choice. She hates that it’s not even necessary to ask for clarity.

She also hates that she knows that JJ Maybank does not make idle threats.

She ignores him for the rest of the evening. Bends over the ukulele, plays the same chords over and over and over to try and get a rise. Goes for a shower and spends the time indulging in hair products and moisturiser. Pulls out the earplugs and eye mask which were a hastily purchased necessity to survive dormitory living.

JJ wakes her up by flicking her in the forehead and pulling up her eye mask. His voice is muffled; she pulls out the earplug.

“-nearby,” she catches, and she thinks she can fill in the blanks. “Wanna come?”

It’s a short mental debate of whether to continue ignoring him. In the end, she goes. They explore Lecce and buy tiny cannoli filled with different flavoured creams. Get shots of expresso from a hatch in the wall, the server sliding the window up when they approach. Italian coffee is definitely the best so far – but the pastries don’t beat France’s. Lecce is the same as other Italian cities – white washed walls, orange rooves. She thinks she could be happy here.

They walk along the seafront, which is stone paved and grey. Waves break against the walls below repetitively. She watches from the corner of her eye as JJ stares out to sea, hands in his pockets, the salt heavy air a stark reminder of home.

They’re actually early to the bus station – have time to kill picking out snacks for the bus ride. Kiara’s hopeful that they’ll make it in time to catch the ferry from Otranto to Corfu and actually make it to Greece today. But it seems public transport in Italian is more a game of luck than reason, so there’s no knowing if the ferry was actually sailing as expected.

The bus is just a mini bus, with only two other passengers. One overhears their American accents, tells them with humour that they’re lucky the bus is actually running. Only does so if there’s three or more passengers.

Kiara’s hyped by the expresso. Plays rock, paper, scissors with JJ. Then Slaps. He’s fast, lightning quick. He always gets her before she’s even realised he’s moved. His downfall is that he flinches away whenever it’s her go – she tries not to let her heart clench at the reactive movements.

“Stop cheating,” he complains, as he snatches his hands away once again despite her hands remaining firmly pressed together. All it takes is for her to tighten her shoulders or glance downwards.

“I’m not! I’m literally just playing the game.”

Guilt overwhelms her after a few more minutes, as his scowl deepens, as his shoulders flinch but his hands remain steady. She stops, declares herself the winner. Pulls out some threads. JJ heaves a sigh, throws his head back dramatically. But he takes the green and blue threads, ties a knot in the top, and listens as she teaches him the next elaborate pattern.

The driver drops them right at the ferry port, despite Kiara’s meek protests. JJ presses a hand to her shoulder, hisses to just let the driver drop them there. _Do you want to schlep across town?_

Port is perhaps too grand a word for it. More like a group of jetties. Yachts and boats bob in the water, tethered securely. It’s a familiar sight.

They can’t see anywhere to buy tickets, but there’s a dark navy and white ferry at the end of one of the jetties. They traipse up the ramp cautiously. There’s a dark-haired employee who squints at them when Kiara says _Inglese?_ with trepidation. He sighs, gestures towards someone else who leads them to a counter and takes payment. Kiara checks it goes to Corfu, assumes it does because the employee nods twice decisively.

They leave their backpacks stowed under some seats (Kiara does extract their passports, just in case) and stand on the deck, watching the Italian coast fading away.

They move to the bow of the boat. The deck’s empty, the sea spray sticking to her skin. Kiara steps right up the railings. Holds her arms out to the side, tilts her head back to the sky. It’s grey and dingy and cold, the air rushing past her.

She starts singing the opening bars of _My Heart Will Go On._

JJ laughs, leans against the railings a foot away. Kiara gets into her rhythm; lets her voice warble, pitch, raises her arms like a conductor; screams into the sky. Hits the chorus, spins to find JJ watching her with a grin that he quickly tempers down. His cheeks are flushed from the sea air.

“It’s Titanic,” she explains.

“I know,” he grins. “Just enjoying the show.”

The deck’s empty and there’s a whole sea beneath her feet. She walks towards him. Lays a hand on his cheek, starts up again. It’s a quiet croon, just between them. She doesn’t focus on the lyrics. Doesn’t focus on the fact that his breathing is shallower, his gaze focussed purely on her.

Kiara stops, self-conscious, and he’s watching with an eyebrow raised. She has one hand on his chest, the other on his cheek. Stands on tip toes and smacks a kiss to his cheek. He turns towards it but she’s retreated, pulled away. JJ catches her wrist, pulls her back. It’s easy to fall against his chest. Easy to be propped up by his hands on her waist, his elbows still on the railings.

“Oh, my God,” she realises, and he’s looking at her inscrutably. “I’m Sea-line Dion,” she pokes him in the ribs. “Get it? Sea-line Dion?”

“Sea-Lion Dion?”

“Oh, shit,” she falls back. His arms are still banded around her waist. “Fuck. How didn’t I see it?”

“Maybe your world view is too blinkered. Too wrapped up in your privilege.”

Kiara gasps, because it’s such an accurate representation of her own words. “You’re literally a white male, JJ Maybank. Don’t talk to me about privilege.”

“At least your parents love you.”

It’s said with something like humour in his gaze, his grasp on her waist unrelenting. It also stops every thought stock still in her mind.

“You’re loved, JJ,” she says eventually, and her lips feel numb as she says the words. As she stares at him. He looks away, and so she gets a good view of his chin, up his nose. “We love you.”

JJ is impassive. It’s also the precise moment that it starts raining like someone’s turned a sprinkler on directly above them. Kiara gasps, ducks away. JJ holds her still for a moment.

“Let go!” she demands, and she struggles out of his grasp. JJ smirks and holds her tighter. “JJ, I’ve got our passports!”

The smirk drops from his face. “Oh, shit,” then he bands an arm around her waist and they race across the heaving, slick deck. Slam through the plastic lined door.

They arrive in Corfu and it’s dark and still raining. JJ had vetoed the plastic covers that would cover their backpacks a while ago, scoffing that he didn’t want to look like a _fucking pussy_. Kiara reminds him of this fact as they stand sideways in a doorway, trying not to get either themselves or their bags too wet.

It doesn’t work – they have to hang all of the top layer of their clothes out around the dormitory. There’s only one hostel open during the down season. The receptionist is apologetic, explains that most bars and restaurants are closed during winter. They do get directions to a locals-only restaurant, which Kiara doesn’t actually mind. They get given a table in the corner and the restaurant’s small and warm, filled with Greek chatter, windows steamed from the inside.

JJ asks the waiter for recommendations. Their menus are collected as soon as he says the words. “I ask the chef,” their server informs them. Then, “he is good, no worry,” at their shared hesitant expression.

The chef is good. They’re brought small clay pots with meatballs in tomato sauce; a slice of some sort of spinach and cheese pie in filo pastry. A chicken skewer, perfectly seasoned. For dessert it’s some nut and pastry concoction dripping in honey.

They also have three shots of ouzo, which smells like nail polish remover and tastes twice as bad. Kiara suppresses gags each and every time; the server filling up their glasses once more. JJ kicks her under the table and smirks, raising the glass. Her eyes are narrowed as she clinks them together.

Their walk back to the hostel is more of a stagger. The rain has eased to a light drizzle, and she doesn’t mind it. Even though it’s cold and dark.

There’s a couple in the dorm when they get back. They’re also damp from the rain. The girl has a mass of blonde hair which looks unbrushed; her boyfriend has a neatly trimmed beard and a top knot.

JJ glances over at them, already shrugging off his parka and blazing a damp trail to their bunk. (She doesn’t know whether it’s her imagination, but she thinks JJ had purposefully hung back and then claimed the bed above hers despite all the others standing empty.)

The girl stands up gracefully from where she’s been sat cross legged on the floor. Presses her palms together, thumbs towards her chest. Bows her head towards Kiara. “Namaste.”

JJ’s snort is loud and derisive. Kiara clamps her lips together to stop them from quirking upwards.

“Hi.”

Behind the girl, the guy has one hand curled over his heart and has bowed his head.

“Oh,” the girl’s face splits into a sunny smile. “English?”

“Yeah,” Kiara’s gaze flickers to JJ, who’s climbed up onto his bed and is peering through the wooden slats with mild disgust. “Well, American.”

“Oh, wow,” the girl’s wild grin hasn’t moved. Instead she bounds over to Kiara, offers her hand out. Then pulls her into a hug. Kiara stands, immobile. The girl doesn’t seem to notice. Her hands rest on Kiara’s upper arms as she pulls away. “I’m Rain.”

JJ’s laugh is more of a bark.

“And that’s Bear,” Rain points at the guy, who nods briefly.

Kiara thinks she hears JJ mutter _are you fucking kidding me_.

Rain talks at her for a while. Pulls at one of her curls, enthuses about her hair. Kiara steps back abruptly, Rain’s hands falling from her arms.

“I saw your uke,” Rain finally steps back and towards her own bunk. “Do you play?”

JJ coughs. Kiara shrugs, smiles thinly. “Not really,” she lies, hoping to throw her off.

“Oh, I can show you!”

“I’m good, actually. Kind of tired. Probably just sleep.”

“Yes,” Rain nods sagely. “Sleep is an excellent mode of resetting oneself.”

“I mean,” Kiara can barely hold it in any longer. “Everyone sleeps though, don’t they? Like every human ever sleeps, every night.”

“Ah yes,” Rain is wide eyed with sincerity. “But there is sleep, and then there’s sleep. You really have to align yourself to your body’s needs. Really just let yourself… be.”

Kiara’s phone buzzes in her pocket. She pulls it out.

 **JJ [10:11]:** she basic

 **JJ [10:11]:** how about u realign her face

 **JJ [10:11]:** 20 if u do

“Just… sense the world’s energies, let it absolve you of the day.”

 **JJ [10:12]:** fine. 10

“I agree,” Bear’s voice is a low husk. Both Rain and Kiara turn towards him. Wait. It becomes clear that he’s finished.

“Thank you,” Kiara backs away again. “I shall bear that all in mind.”

JJ’s scrolling through his phone. Kiara hooks her hands through the bars, pulls herself up so she’s on his eyelevel.

“I hate you,” she hisses. “Why didn’t you rescue me?”

“That’s your area,” he hisses back. “You love horoscopes and energies and shit.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, I read your horoscope. Wanna know what it said?” There are only the bars between them, then barely half a foot. He has his head on the pillow, face turned towards her. His phone lies on his chest, forgotten. His expression is open, his eyes focussed on her face. “It said you’re a little bitch. And a bad friend.”

His face splits into a smile and it strikes her then that there’s perhaps a few things she’d do for that reward. “Is that so?”

“Damn straight.”

“And what about yours?”

Kiara jumps down from her perch. “That I’m a bad bitch. And a great friend.”

He laughs then. “Sure it does. Hey, how about you come up here and show me how much of a good friend you are?”

Kiara pauses halfway through pulling off her converse to glare at him.

Later on, just as Kiara’s plugged her phone in and is debating pulling out her eye mask and ear plugs, Bear and Rain do some weird humming ritual, cross legged on the bottom bunk. JJ’s head suddenly appears over the top of the bars, upside down.

“I’m about to cut them up,” he declares, and it’s not even quietly. Kiara quirks one eyebrow.

She pulls at a lock of his hair instead, and he lets go of the bar to swat at her. Bares his teeth in an approximation of a grin before disappearing again.

There’s not much to do with the down season. They hike all over the island. Always end up on a cliff overlooking the sea. Eventually they take their backpacks to the dock and try to hitch a ride to a different island. Someone tells them there are supply runs to nearby islands; they may be able to catch a ride.

Whilst they’re waiting, Kiara makes JJ help her to perfect a handstand. Kicks off her shoes and demands he catches her ankles to hold her upright. She gets better at balancing. He even lets go and stands back, but a few seconds later she collapses to the ground.

She only has to hold JJ’s ankles twice before he perfects it. She pushes at his legs in retaliation, so he wavers, then drops to his knees.

A boat nearby sputters, engine barely catching before it dies. JJ and Kiara exchange a look.

“Alternator,” JJ assesses.

“Nah, filter,” Kiara pauses, listens again.

It is the filter. JJ can’t resist but wading in. There are two men squinting at the exposed engine, pulling at pieces. JJ says “she’s real good,” with a thumb pointed towards Kiara, but she doesn’t think they can understand what he’s saying. They share looks, then grunt and move to one side and let JJ and Kiara drop onto the boat’s deck, duck above the engine.

Kiara takes the wrench the man had been wielding. JJ pulls a plastic bag from somewhere and catches the fuel as she loosens off the filter. It’s silted up with sediment and grit. JJ uses the sleeve of his sweatshirt to clean it roughly, which Kiara scowls at. She checks the secondary filter as well, which is also clogged with grime associated with using cheap diesel. The men have been watching them closely, but have stood out of their light.

JJ presses a hand into the alternator, hums. “The belt’s still loose.”

Kiara checks it, tugs lightly. “Not the primary issue. I still win.”

“I was still _right_ ,” he complains, and he snatches the wrench from her.

The boat stutters once, but then the engine catches. The men cheer quietly. Someone else has appeared, called over.

“They say thank you,” the boy is around their age, with olive skin and brown curly hair. “Asks how much you would like?”

JJ laughs, and Kiara pushes at his arm before he can ask for anything monetary. “Where’s he going?” Kiara asks instead. “Can we go with him?”

They end up going. The boat’s not much bigger than the Pogue, and doesn’t run as smoothly. JJ keeps throwing aggrieved looks in the vague direction of the engine. The boat’s owner introduces himself with a grunt as Nicholas. It seems to be the extent of his English.

Nicholas lets JJ take the controls for a short while. Taps the navigation system to direct the way. Kiara thinks JJ may feel patronised for a moment, but then he has his hands on the wheel and is squinting into the sea and he looks completely at home.

Kiara takes several pictures. When he notices, JJ flashes a nipple, right when Nicholas has turned away.

It’s cold and windy, the sea spray stinging her face. Nicholas retakes the controls and they bump to a stop at the dock. JJ jumps off, rope in hand. Kiara throws his and then her backpack, then takes his hand to heave herself onto the jetty. It always takes her a moment to re-adjust to solid land.

They say thank you and make to walk off, but Nicholas is gesturing and walking slowly backwards, arms frantically moving.

Which is how they end up staying in some Greek family’s house. There are three children, one young and two early teens. They have a grasp of English. Kind of.

It’s overwhelming and loud – children race to and from the table – everyone seems to shout at each other, over each other, a hubbub of noise and chaos. JJ is wide eyed with it, catching her eye across the table as Nicholas’ wife passes him a basket filled with rolls of bread whilst simultaneously swatting at a small hand as it sneaks from below the table, trying to snatch something from a plate.

“I am sorry,” says Christos, one of the teenagers. “My family… they are… A lot?”

“No, thank you,” Kiara leans back as a hand reaches to the bowl next to her.

She asks for hostel or hotel recommendations. Christos relays the question to his mother, who laughs, raps a spoon against a counter.

“She says you stay here,” Christos translates.

Which is how they end up in some room with a bed that isn’t quite a full-size double. The sheets are thin, but soft. The bathroom is on the landing outside and shared with everyone else, with a handle that jams and a door that sticks to the frame. She has to text JJ to come and shove it open from the outside. He leaves her on read for a good two minutes before coming to rescue her, smirking as he does so.

“Not like you to ask a man to rescue you, Carrera.”

“I wouldn’t trust you to rescue me if you were the last man on Earth. Just this once.”

It’s a lie. She wouldn’t trust his methods – there would be too much violence, bloodshed. But she knows he’d always find a way.

A door slams somewhere else in this house, and JJ flinches at the sudden noise. Covers it up by glancing over his shoulder. “This place has far too many humans.”

He hasn’t stood back to let her past. Still stands in the doorway, closer to her than reasonable.

They were fed Greek wine and Ouzo over dinner. Which is why she puts one hand on his cheek. JJ turns into the contact, his eyes fluttering closed. She thinks he swallows.

He says, “Kie,” quietly. Her hand drops from his face. She pushes past him.

“Brush your teeth,” she commands. “Your breath stinks.”

Later on, when it’s dark and rain patters gently against the window, JJ whispers, “Nicholas seems like a cool dad.”

Kiara rolls onto her back. Her and JJ are accustomed to sharing a bed now. Accustomed to the fact that they sleep apart, otherwise JJ’s skin makes her overheat. He still always ends up close, body bowed towards her, ankle hooked over hers. She doesn’t feel as claustrophobic anymore.

“Yeah,” she agrees. It feels like one of those moments; a confession into a darkened room.

“I wish…” he starts, but he doesn’t finish.

Kiara reaches for his hand. Finds his arm, pulls it towards her. “I know. Me, too.”

They reach Athens on the 17th of January, which is coincidentally the first day of the Patras Carnival. They get trapped in crowds which line the streets with their backpacks on. Floats and dancers make a loud music filled procession.

Kiara has to ration history so JJ doesn’t lose interest. Stand amongst the ruins of the Acropolis. Clamber to the top of Mount Lycabettus with beers in Kiara’s backpack. JJ uncaps them on his teeth and she complains about it, like always.

They look over the view. JJ flicks his beer cap down the drop, and Kiara makes him retrieve it. He’s still searching five minutes later, grumbling as he parts branches of a bush.

“You’re like some environmental Nazi-”

“We’re not the only occupants of this planet, JJ. Do you want some animal to choke on it? Do you? Really?”

She does a handstand as the sun’s setting. JJ takes the picture just as her sweatshirt slides down towards her head, revealing her bralette. He posts it to his Instagram story and though she complains about it, though her fingerprint is programmed into his phone by now, she doesn’t take it down.

They go to Syntagma Square at 11am to see the changing of the guard. Go down backstreets and into tiny, incense scented shops selling bronze jewellery. Kiara buys a twisted bronze arm cuff because she’s always wanted one. Tries it on later, in the dorm, standing in her singlet and cut off jeans.

“Uh, yeah, nice,” JJ assures her, when she asks how it looks. His eyes aren’t on her bicep.

It rains and so Kiara moves onto attempting handstands to landing in the bridge position. Practices each element, then separately. JJ offers to hover over and catch her if she looks like she’s going to fall.

“This is just an excuse to get your hands on me,” Kiara protests, but she’s glad when her wrists give way and his hands are already there, curved around her hips and hauling her upright before gravity has a chance to snap into action.

“Like I’d need an invitation,” he scoffs. They’re too close. Kiara hasn’t showered today – her hair’s thrown into a bun and a bandana, securely out of her face. Turns out handstands and bridges are actually strenuous – there’s a sheen of sweat on her neck, on her forehead.

She could kiss him, right now. She could push him back onto her bunk and she knows he’d let her. Knows he’d put his hands on her hips and maybe even smile about it.

The door bangs open and some non-English language fills the air. Kiara steps back, raises her hands and prepares to go into a handstand. “Again.”

JJ watches a film, one hand behind his head and earbuds in. Kiara practices her ukulele; starts singing, quietly. JJ doesn’t react so she gets bolder, louder. Knows she sounds good, believes it, for once, so she doesn’t even mind when she sees his eyes flickering towards her.

They go for dinner in a taverna and Kiara eats without as much guilt. Orders tzatziki and haloumi and hummus, all with a glass of red wine. There’s an aching in her muscles from the hiking and the handstands and she’s noticed her limbs are sinewy and toned. Her backpack doesn’t feel as heavy, although she still walks like a tortoise.

They take a bus to Santorini, a volcanic island. The towns are white painted buildings, towering above the sea. The beaches are white or black pebbles, shifting under their booted feet as they scramble across them. JJ challenges her to a race and although he’s quicker he’s also heavier, displacing huge boot-fulls with each step. Kiara is light and fast, moving away from his outstretched hands, reaching the cobbled sidewalk with a cheer.

She does a victory dance, right in his face, jostles into his shoulder, his side. JJ pouts and looks into the distance.

There are donkeys and cats and dogs – whenever she turns around, JJ is trying to befriend another animal. A cat hisses and scratches him when he strokes its belly and he sulks about it for a good few hours.

“It showed me it’s belly,” he protests. “Why didn’t it want to be scratched?”

He tells Pope this sulkily over Facetime, whilst Kiara practices handstands in the background. Pope informs him that it’s because cats don’t like to be touched there – Kiara laughs and she’s pushing a hand through JJ’s hair, pushing at his head.

“That’s what I said,” she smirks victoriously, and she tries to ignore the look JJ’s giving her from the bunk. It’s open and honest and hurts if she looks too long.

They need to do laundry but their dorm’s too cramped to be able to hang things out to dry. Kiara resorts to stealing JJ’s sweatshirts and t-shirts because he has a tendency to rotate his three favourites and thus have a clean supply.

It takes two days for him to notice that her entire outfit is his – John B’s track pants; JJ’s sweater; his tank.

“Hey,” he lowers his phone from where he’s taking a picture of her. “That’s my sweater.”

“No, it’s not,” she lies, steps back sharply as he approaches. “Definitely mine.”

“It literally has my name on it.”

She covers the initials with her hand. “I don’t see it.”

His phone clatters to the ground and he starts running. Kiara takes off, trips, yells, “no, JJ!” and spins in the opposite direction. He’s fast – he’s been ducking and diving and running for years. His arms band around her waist and her feet leave the ground and she’s shrieking, yelling, drumming her heels against his shins until he grunts and releases her.

She doesn’t run again. Spins around, holds one hand out to keep him at a distance. “Fine – fine. It’s on loan.”

“On loan? Doesn’t that require the owner’s consent?”

He’s backdropped by the ocean and grey skies; three scratches on his forearm from the cat, his eyes trained solely on her.

“Name your price,” she proposes eventually. JJ’s fast – he’s quick wit, sarcastic quips. Mind running mile a minute just to keep three steps ahead.

But now, he’s silent. And Kiara thinks she knows why; can feel a flush rising on her cheeks.

“JJ!” she reprimands.

“What?”

“I can’t believe you!”

“What? I haven’t said anything!”

“You’re disgusting! Oh, my God. One track mind, much?”

“I haven’t said anything! Anything you think I’ve said, you’ve thought first. So really, you’re disgusting.”

It’s not like she’s not thought about it. The line has been blurred, now. Every time he looks through his eyelashes or laughs or flirts. It’s his rings and his necklace and his sleep flattened hair. The way he collapses onto her bunk with her, bands his arms around her waist and falls straight asleep. It’s the sort of trust he places in Pope and John B. It makes her want to recoil but hold him tighter.

He’s softening – she can sense it. The Cut is unwinding from his limbs. He plays their playlist and dances along. Gyrates his hips to Marvin Gaye just to make her laugh. Makes fun of her new handstand obsession, but always catches her ankles. He’s deleted the calorie counting app from her phone. Always pulls out a full sugar coke at the right moment, just when she’s about to snap something unforgiveable and barbed (those moments scare her, because she sounds just like her mother).

There are certain things she wants to do but doesn’t, because of JJ. They don’t spend everyday together. Sometimes he wanders off and she texts but doesn’t get a response. Sometimes he leaves in the night and comes back hours later, socked feet impossibly quiet on the ladder. She still wakes up every time, like her body’s in tune to his sleep cycle and can’t relax without his presence.

They’re in Croatia for Valentine's Day. They had to fly from Athens, which annoyed her. But JJ had seen the Plitvice National Park on Instagram and insisted. Apparently it was better now, without all the tourists. Public transport is shockingly rare in winter, so they hire a car. JJ lets her drive because the roads are quiet. It takes two and half hours from Zagreb. The roads are salted and JJ had made sure they had winter tyres, because snow scatters the ground.

The water of the lakes is startlingly blue, steam curling in tendrils from the surface. It’s cold; someone says the waterfalls are frozen. Their breaths plume with every exhalation. Kiara tugs the hood of her parka up over her hair, pulls her sleeves down over her hands. There are couples everywhere, and the on-site café are selling heart shaped candies. Everyone back home is beginning to wake up and there are all the routine Valentine's Day posts. _This one_ with a new watch and a heart eyed emoji. Breakfasts in bed and lunch dates.

_The Pogues (plus Sarah)_

**Sarah [1:23]:** Happy Valentine's bitches!!!!

 **Sarah [1:24]:** Hope you’re all being spoiled like you deserve!!

“Valentine's is a corporate scam,” Kiara rants, as they cross wooden bridges and marvel at frozen waterfalls and crystal-clear lakes. Every time there’s an ice patch JJ stops so she has to go around it. “It’s designed by card companies so they sell more cards. If you love someone, you should tell them every day, not just be nice to them on one day out of the entire year.”

JJ’s squatted to look at some fish who move impossibly slowly in the water, cold-stricken. Holds out a hand, as though he could grab one out the water. Kiara resists the urge to push him in, because it’s February and there are signs everywhere saying _no swimming_.

“It’s such bullshit as well – going to restaurants with over-priced shitty food and underpaid staff. The pressure to buy something perfect. To cook a good meal. And then the sex – because surely it results in sex.”

“We could always do that part.”

She pushes him off balance as he straightens up, but catches his arm before he can mis-step and fall into the lake. “Asshole,” she tells him, but she thinks it sounds fond.

She adds a picture of him trying to lick an icicle to her Snapchat story.

They drive to Split later, which is another three and a half hours drive. They argue about whether to keep going straight there or stop overnight. JJ grits out _what’s the rush, Kie?_ And then _I’ll treat you, for Valentine's Day._

Which is not the right thing to say, because she just keeps speeding on, hands curled around the wheel. JJ falls asleep around hour two, arms folded across his chest, head against the side. It irritates her. Irritates her because now she doesn’t know when to turn; has to peer at the in-built navigation system and try to decipher it because it’s in Croatian and JJ hadn’t wanted to change it. He likes the challenge of languages. She’s too spiteful to pull over and try and change it to English. Just settles for glaring at the screen and JJ.

Split is all narrow streets and hill starts and her ankle aches from pumping the clutch. It’s dark, because it’s always dark recently. Dark and cold. Kiara uncurls from the driver’s seat and staggers from the car in the public parking lot, staring around. They’re on a hill. It looks like everything’s on a hill.

JJ’s throwing open his door and pulling himself out, one hand splayed on the roof of the car, blinking sleep from his eyes and squinting. “What now?”

The grudge has been harbouring for hours now. Unreasonable and thorny and sharp.

“How about you do something?” she snipes, and JJ blinks at her. It’s dark and there’s a dim light from the car interior. It’s just enough that she can see the whites of his eyes and his teeth.

“Kie-”

“Why do I have to plan everything?”

She wants him to argue back. She wants him to snap so she can retaliate. So she can spit the bitterness and tiredness and weight right back at him. Instead he just blinks at her, sleep mussed and fogged and vulnerable.

She hates how shitty it makes her feel.

They end up in a bar because alcohol makes everything better. Kiara ends up pressed against some blonde guy and JJ’s nowhere to be seen which – which makes her feel exposed, like Rome. She’s surrounded by strangers and the blonde guy has his hands on her waist, fingers flexing like it won’t be long before he’s finding the edge of her (JJ’s) sweatshirt.

She’s not even that drunk. The air is cold as she leaves. There’s mango in the air and JJ’s by himself, staring across the harbour.

“Having fun?” he drawls as she stops in front of him.

“He asked what brand JJ was,” Kiara sighs, and she runs a finger over the white embroidery in explanation. JJ quirks an eyebrow. “I said it was my brand.”

“Your brand?” vapour trickles from his nostrils and he looks unreasonably good. “I don’t belong to anyone, sista.”

She pushes him against the wall and he lets her, just like he always does.

“This is classic Valentine's,” he points out. Kiara doesn’t care.

His fingertips run down her bare spine, later on. In the double bed of a hotel they’ve had to pay four times the odds for.

“You’re better at macking than him,” she tells him by way of explanation. JJ’s hand stills, then keeps moving.

“Right.”

There’s silence and she’s not looking at him. Sits with her knees to her chest, chin resting on them.

“If you could have any Valentine's,” he starts. “What would it be?”

Kiara thinks of the social media posts she’s seen. Of high-end restaurants and button downs and gifts that come in crushed velvet lined square boxes.

“Something like this,” she says eventually. “Travel, alcohol. The sea.”

“Same,” she can hear the faint smile. Hears him shifting, as though he’s moved onto his elbows.

“You’re a romantic at heart,” she decides, and her spine pops as she stretches and shimmies from the bed. Tries to keep the sheets around her body for as long as possible. “You’re gonna do the whole dozen roses and one plastic one _oh my love will die for you with the final rose_ one day.” He’s raised an eyebrow at her, lips quirked at the corner. “And some girl is gonna eat it up. You’ll be in a tux – not that shitty one you borrow from John B – and you’ll go to some high-end restaurant and order the most expensive thing but not know what it is.”

“Fuck that.” He’s sunk back down onto the mattress, stares at the ceiling. “I prefer the Maybank Valentine's. Maybe today I won’t hit you.”

It makes her stop from where she’s shrugging on his t-shirt. She pulls it down over her ribs, looks at him.

“JJ,” she says, because she can never find the words. “You’re not your dad.”

JJ hums, his throat bobbing.

“Would you hit me?”

“What? No! Fuck – Kiara,” he’s sat bolt upright, spine taut, dismay on his face. “Fuck, Kie. Do you think I would?”

There’s not much to do but crawl across the bed. Sit on her knees beside him. Curve her arms around his neck and pull him to her until he relaxes, spine melting. “No. And that’s why you’re not your dad.”

She thinks there’s dampness on her skin. His arms are slow but then they encircle her; clutch her, his face to the front of his own t-shirt.

They go to Dubrovnik because apparently it has something to do with Game of Thrones. Kiara points out that JJ has never actually made it through an entire episode of the series.

“That’s not the point,” he informs her gravely. Makes her take a ream of pictures of him to send to Pope.

They go to thermal spas formed with natural springs, wrapped tightly in white robes until the edge of the pools. JJ splashes straight in, sighs at the heat. Kiara is slow to shed her robe. Waits until she’s calf deep before untying the belt and throwing it onto the dry rock.

JJ’s reclining against the side, propped on his elbows. Watching. Always watching. Not with amusement, not with humour. Kiara dips her shoulders under the water and pushes off into the deeper area. Closes her eyes.

“Would you have let John B come, if he’d asked?”

Kiara leans backwards so her hair’s underwater. Water wooshes in her ears as she lifts her head. Droplets trickle from her hair.

“Probably. He wouldn’t have lasted three weeks. That boy craves stability.”

“Pope?”

“He gets travel sick,” Kiara stands, feet perched on the uneven rocky basin of the pool. The air smells of sulphur. JJ hasn’t stopped watching her.

“Sarah?”

“Am I still a feminist if I say no?”

JJ’s nose scrunches when he laughs. Then he’s moving, wading across the pool. His fingers slide across her skin, slick underwater.

The question hangs in the air, unasked. She thinks he’s probably scared of the answer.

They move from pool to pool, scrambling across damp rocks. JJ holds out a steadying hand. They’re all different temperatures, some almost unbearably hot. It’s a nice contrast to the cool February air.

“I’d still choose you,” she whispers when they’re in the cramped and less than fragrant changing rooms. JJ has his towel on his head, is rubbing at his hair. She thinks he hears her.

They’re in Budapest on March 3rd. In a dormitory, because although they’re rich they only have limited allowances until they’re 25. It turns out travelling the world is expensive.

It also puts some boundaries in place. Because too often she’s woken up tangled in JJ, his breath on her shoulder. Too often she’s lied in a single bunk and wanted the warm weight of his body next to hers, to be able to graze her fingers along his arm. They’ve slept together three times now, which is three too many but also far too infrequently.

JJ had gone out last night – she’d felt the whole bunk shake as he crept down the ladder. When she pulls herself up to look at him, she smells alcohol on his breath and smoke on his clothes. He still has his boots on, hanging over the end.

Kiara leaves him whilst she showers and changes. Sometimes he gets days where he has something to forget. Recently that involves reaching for her. Requesting some song she’s been practicing. Sometimes she’s not enough.

She also knows when he’s awake – some cosmic shift, or something. His gaze is blank as he meets her eyes.

“It’s dad’s birthday,” he says eventually, once she’s waited long enough.

Her heart sinks right down to her sneaker clad feet. “You wanna talk about it?”

JJ snorts and turns his head away, dismissing her.

Kiara goes and buys his favourite European candy and goes to three separate supermarkets looking for an American section. Finally finds blue Kool-Aid on the end of an aisle, on the top shelf. Even finds Reese’s peanut butter cups on the confectionary aisle.

The wrappers are bright against the white sheets of the covers as she tips them from her tote bag. Kiara swings up the ladder and sits cross legged at his feet. JJ surveys her through cracked eyelids.

“Wanna go shoot some shit?” she proposes. “There’s paintballing near here. In caves.”

He’s quiet on the ride over. As they get suited up in boiler suits. Kiara has to roll the sleeves of hers up which makes him laugh. He also purchases extra bullets, kept in a container on the utility belt they’ve been provided with. He holds the gun over one shoulder, plastic goggles making red indents on his forehead.

They’re paired with a stag party from Ireland who accept them into their group with good humour. They speak fast to each other – so fast that Kiara and JJ peer uncomprehendingly at them until they consciously slow down.

They have tester shots at a wall. The paint makes a satisfying crack against the target, coloured paint bleeding from the shot.

JJ loosens up after the first shot, glances over his shoulder.

“I’m so going to whoop your ass,” he promises.

“JJ, we’re on the same team.”

It’s competitive and fast and she gets shot in the back in the first game. It hurts sharply, but the pain fades almost immediately. JJ laughs at her from his hiding space as she trudges across to the time out zone for the designated ten minutes.

The stag party are fiercely competitive, cussing everyone out. One gives her a boost over a mock wall during capture the flag. It ends up with her and JJ hiding behind a barrel, crouched on the floor. The rest of the team are too far away or in time out. Kiara can see the white of the flag but also the bobbing heads of all the opposing team. Can feel her pulse in her throat.

“Cover me?” she asks JJ, and for a quick moment she thinks he might do something like kiss her.

“Run fast,” he advises, and then his plastic gun starts spitting paint grenades.

She gets hit just as she pulls the flag from the pole. Once in the back, once in the stomach and once in the shoulder. Shouts, “hey!” as another cracks into her thigh, even though they’ve been declared victorious. An opposing team member smirks from under his goggles.

“I’m done,” she declares in the fourth game. Her breath’s heaving and she had to army crawl across the dusty cave floor to get to him. JJ’s eyes are bright and he’s covered in paint, but he keeps quietly picking off other people with accuracy that should probably be unnerving.

“Dude,” someone complains as JJ hits them right in the ass. “This is like the fourth time you’ve got me.”

“Are you aiming for there on purpose?” Kiara muses, because she’s still trying to catch her breath. JJ smirks at her.

They end up on opposing teams for the final games. Some guy called Ben pulls them apart, marching between them. “These two are too powerful,” he declares. Maybe because JJ just has to look at her and she knows who to shoot next, who to take out so he can progress with whatever supposed mission they’ve been set.

They collide behind one of the covers. JJ has blue paint all down his jaw, smeared behind his ear. His breath is ragged but she’s composed. It’s his gun levelled at her, finger on the trigger.

Kiara stalks towards him. Pulls up his goggles. Plants a kiss right on his mouth, one hand curled behind his neck. JJ drops his gun, pulls her towards him with a groan. As though he’s been waiting all day.

She shoots him in the back, at point blank range. JJ’s jaw drops in betrayal, but it slowly curls into something akin to pride as she snaps her goggles back over her eyes. She reaches out and lowers his as well.

“Sorry, babe,” she breezes. “Law of the jungle.”

Her team win – and because of her. Before she knows it she’s hitched above shoulders, passed like a crowd surfer. JJ’s laughing with someone as she’s placed back on her feet. She thinks that if she looks closely she may still be able to see pride in his eyes.

The stag group invite them out clubbing. JJ looks at Kiara before shrugging their assent.

Turns out the myth about the Irish may not be far wrong. They slam back beer, tequila, premium vodka. Kiara gets challenged to shot after shot. Her vision blurs and the room rolls.

She’s in her element on the dancefloor. Body humming with motion, with the music. JJ’s enticed for a song or two but then goes back to brooding and drinking vodka like water.

One minute she’s dancing with some brunette girl, the next JJ’s bouncing the guy called Ben’s skull off the bar.

Kiara didn’t think her bruised and aching body could move any faster than it had at any point that day, but it definitely does. Until she’s colliding with JJ’s back, until he’s shrugging her off and winding back against, fist clenched and eyes blank. The rest of the party are just as quick – a circle quickly forms and men are stepping forwards, fists balled.

Kiara pulls at JJ desperately, chants, “JJ, Jay, c’mon, we gotta go, JJ, fuck,” until he looks at her, gaze dark and dead.

He looks past her to the approaching bouncers, back to Ben who’s cupping a hand around his nose and another to his side, then he’s grabbing her arm and they’re shouldering through the crowd and down the stairs.

There’s a line to get in who all turn towards them curiously. The remnants of bass rings in her ears. JJ drops her arm as soon as they’re outside, stalks down the sidewalk.

“JJ,” she says and it’s a broken plea.

“Don’t.”

“What the fuck was that?”

“You don’t need to know.” His voice is tight and cold, dismissive.

“Fuck, JJ.” He doesn’t react, doesn’t stop walking. She has to jog to keep up. “You can’t just punch someone because it’s your shitty dad’s birthday.”

He stops abruptly and she almost slams into his back. Falls back a step as he spins. He’s suddenly very close and very tall – crowded into her space. His hand stops centimetre’s away from her, as though it wants to twist into the front of her shirt.

“You wanna know?” his face is close to hers now. Voice has dropped in volume but not bitterness. “He called you a slut, Kie. Said you were dancing like some little slut-”

Her eyes close briefly. “They’re just words, JJ-”

“He can’t just-”

“JJ,” it’s always a risk, touching JJ when he’s fired up on adrenaline and instinct and fight. Her hand barely touches his cheek, gives him room to move from it. But he’s staring at her. Turns his head a fraction so her fingers make firmer contact. The ice in his eyes is slowly, slowly melting.

She curls a hand around his neck and tugs him down so she can press her forehead to his.

“Kie-” it’s a soft exhalation, easily caught as she kisses him. His hands pull her to him roughly, their hips and chests together. His chin drops to her shoulder.

The dorm’s empty when they get back, which is a blessed relief. She still hangs towels over the space, tucked under the mattress of the top bunk so they obscure the bottom as make-shift drapes. It’s not an unusual occurrence; a few other beds have done the same. It’s also not infallible, but she’s not thinking about that as she climbs behind them and puts her knees either side of JJ’s hips. Not as he’s looking at her, a bruise blooming on his cheek. Not as he settles in the cradle of her hips, as he drops his forehead to hers and gasps and she pulls her hands through his hair and whispers _shh_ against his bare shoulder. Because he needs this – not necessarily her, but he needs gentleness and light kisses to his throat, to his chin. Hands to pull him closer, not away.

She doesn’t move away after. Just struggles into his t-shirt in the limited space, hands him his boxers. His eyes are still dark and empty. She wriggles around so she can put her arms around his neck. It leaves her half draped over him, his heartbeat in her ear. Their skin is sticky and he’s unbearably warm and still smeared with paint, littered with circular bruises from the paintballs.

“I doubt he ever thought he would end up like he is,” his voice is quiet, subdued. Head pressed to her shoulder. “What if weed, punching shit when I’m angry and fighting is just the beginning?”

Kiara presses a feather light kiss to his eyelid. “You’re not your dad. If I have to say it a thousand times, I will.”

He turns his nose into her collarbone. “I think you’re only on about ten, currently.”

“You’re not your dad. You’re not your dad. You’re not your dad. You’re not your dad. You’re not your dad. You’re not your dad-” JJ clamps a hand over her mouth; Kiara nips at his fingers gently. Pulls at his wrist. Sucks in a breath, “you’re not your dad. You’re not your dad.” He tickles her sides then, grunts as she elbows him in the ribs. “You’re not your dad. You’re not your dad.”

“Fine! Fine!” he pulls her closer, half on top of him. Leg over thigh like a jigsaw puzzle. His nose skims her neck. “You win.”

“I always win.”

JJ closes his eyes, exhales shortly. “That you do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i mean they were supposed to be on a different continent three chapters ago but they do what they want


	11. prague - slovenia - austria - thailand - vietnam.

The next day she drags him on a walking tour and doesn’t even feel guilty about it. They learn that Budapest used to be two cities. Get shown bullet marks and shrapnel gouges on the side of stone buildings from the war.

JJ disappears and comes jogging back with a mint chocolate ice cream.

There are ruin bars in big vaults beneath the city. Although they haven’t spoken about it, they order two drinks each before moving onto soft drinks. She thinks it’s a wise decision.

There’s a church decorated with human skeletons on the outskirts of Prague. Sedlec Ossuary. They stay in a hostel in the old town and she can’t stop taking pictures of the ancient buildings. Hire a pedalo and cycle down the river until they get tangled in weeds because JJ gets distracted by a duck and steers them too close to the bank.

Kiara huffs at him, reproach in her gaze. JJ just pulls out a pen-knife from God knows where and starts slashing at the weeds tangled in the paddles at the back.

“Honestly, Kie, it was a really cool duck, it was like purple and blue and shit – and I think I saw little ducks-”

“Ducklings.”

“Yeah, them. You would have loved it.”

She had seen the duck. And the empty water bottle bobbing behind it which was most definitely not a duckling.

JJ pushes hair out of his eyes, peers at her through the yellow strands. Touches his tongue to his bottom lip. “What?”

Kiara breaks the stare, peers across the water. “Are we done yet? Can we move?” she pedals experimentally and JJ yelps as his pedals turn, clipping him on the ankle. He falls back against the plastic seat and shoots her a wounded look. “Who put you in charge of steering, anyway?”

“I’m the best navigator,” he counters. “That’s a fact.”

“We just got stuck because you got distracted by a duck.”

She’s still looking at him – he’s wearing the red sweatshirt the Heyward’s bought him, which is bright against the pale skin of his throat. There’s a bandana around his forehead because his hair’s now far too long, almost rivalling John B’s in length. He’s still using her shampoo and it makes the blonde strands impossibly soft. They fall over the top of the bandana, have to be shaken from his eyes. It shouldn’t be endearing.

“What?” he asks again, because he’s stopped muttering under his breath about how ungrateful she is and has noticed she hasn’t continued pedalling. That her gaze is still on him. “Are you actually gonna do some work, or am I gonna have to do it all like always?”

“You need a haircut,” she informs him. “You’re heading towards man bun territory.”

Her lips quirk as he scoffs, as he sucks in a short breath. “Now you can fuck right off, I ain’t no man bun toting Kook-”

And she laughs and he shoots her a look like this was his aim all along.

Alarms go off on his phone all the time and it’s not until eleven days of them constantly ringing, three times a day, that she realises why.

JJ silences the latest one and says, “I’m hungry,” and starts pulling out the packed lunch they’ve made. They’re overlooking Lake Bled and it’s cold, the back end of the skiing season. She’s bundled in her parka and a hoodie and her woollen hat. JJ likes to steal it, pull it down over her eyes despite her protests that he’ll stretch it.

“Are you Pavlov?” JJ looks up from where he’s crouched, retrieving sandwiches, fruit and chips from her backpack that he mostly carries. “The alarms, the sudden hunger. Like Pavlov’s dogs.”

JJ pauses and then looks away from her at the same time as the realisation hits home; she’s supposed to be the dog.

“I’m not good at remembering.” He hands her a sandwich and still won’t meet her eyes. She stares at the bread.

She wonders if this is how JJ feels now that everyone knows about his dad. Relieved, but wary. Like if anyone knows the depths of his suffering they may run away. Not that her stupid brain glitch could ever compare to his situation. It annoys her that it tries.

“I feel so guilty,” she says eventually, and she’s still staring at the damn sandwich. At the small holes in the bread’s surface, the crusts. “I feel so stupid – I love food, I love cooking. But it makes me feel so sick.”

The branch she’s sitting on bows as JJ sits next to her. “Your mom loves you,” his voice is quiet, but firm. “And she’s great. Really hot, too, actually,” Kiara swats at his shoulder and he shrugs her off. “But she – she says some fucked up things, I think. And that’s her issue, not yours. Because it doesn’t matter what you look like because – you’re really into sea turtles and the ocean and you’re like, really fucking good with engines and boats and you can sing and play that stupid ukulele and you can look after people and make friends literally anywhere you go. You’re the cleverest person I know.”

She’s staring at the side of his face but he’s got his gaze focussed ahead, over the snow dusted trees and the expanse of water.

“And all that,” he continues, and he still hasn’t looked at her. “All that is worth more than the size of your clothes.”

She wants to push him off the branch and she wants to scream wildly, until her throat’s sore and she can get rid of the ache in her chest and in her stomach and the voice in her head that is unrelenting and harsh.

Instead, she lays her head on his shoulder and he wraps his arm around her waist. And she eats the damn sandwich.

“I’d still mack you if you were the size of a house,” he says after a long pause. Kiara sighs and pushes him off the branch.

They’re in Vienna and it’s beautiful, but JJ sighs whilst they’re walking through the main square at night. “Europe’s starting to look the same.”

Kiara has been thinking the same. Wonders if that’s the reason why she’s been gravitating them towards Munich – has looked up flights, vaccination requirements. “Thailand looks nice.”

It’s a sixteen-hour flight and Kiara begins to wonder if this is how JJ feels all the time. She’s antsy; cooped up in her chair. Keeps reclining and then inclining her seat, much to the annoyance of the businessman behind. JJ’s had crashed out in the first hour, curled up against her shoulder, the thin airline provided pillow between them. His hair keeps tickling her nose and she bats it away in annoyance.

She watches the first halves of two films. Is relieved at the interruption of dinner provided in hot foil takeout containers. Jostles JJ awake and doesn’t focus too much on his sleepy protests. He falls on the dry tomato pasta like a stray but friendly dog.

Kiara had bought a magazine at the airport – one of the only ones in English. Flicks to the horoscope section out of idle curiosity. JJ sees it and scoffs.

“You can’t believe in that bullshit.”

“We’re approximately seventy percent water and the moon is strong enough to control the ocean. The ocean, JJ. You’re being naïve to think that it has no impact on you.”

JJ shoots her a disbelieving look. The longer they travel, the fewer words they have to actually speak. He can get a point across with one sideways stare, a scrunch of his nose. It reminds Kiara of JJ and John B and the easy fluidity they have around each other.

“What do the stars have in store for me today, then?” he sighs eventually, his brow creased dubiously.

Kiara clears her throat grandly and reads. “Stay alert and consider all instructions provided twice. The moment is now to fix or throw out things that are broken. You have a lot of time on your hands to deal with leftover matters from the past.”

“Bullshit,” JJ insists, but he sounds a little less sure.

“It also says you’ll have some elicit encounter with an Aries,” she taps the glossy page.

“Are you Aries?”

“No, Cancer.”

JJ hums. “Shame.”

Kiara tries not to smile. “My elicit encounter is with a Taurus.”

“I’m not a Taurus.”

“Nah, you’re a Gemini. Pope’s a Taurus.”

“And fortunately, also a continent away.”

Kiara looks at him and he looks straight back. “Two continents, maybe. Depends where we are.”

“No way is he getting here within the next day. Unless he invents something, which is not completely out of reach. But he definitely wouldn’t have the balls to fly it without multiple tests.”

“Do you think I’d have an elicit encounter with Pope if he was here?” Kiara keeps her tone light, casual. Keeps her gaze on the magazine. Can feel JJ’s shoulder rise and fall in a shrug.

“I don’t know, man. He’s a good-looking guy.”

“The best,” she agrees.

“Such good eyes-”

“His abs-”

“God, that voice-”

“Excellent vocabulary,” she nods sagely. Then before she loses her nerve, “he’s not really my type, anymore.”

“Right.”

He doesn’t say _I can be any type you want, baby_ he doesn’t say _judging by recent events, I’m your type_ with a shit eating grin. He just looks at the in-flight screen and starts scrolling through films to watch. It’s oddly frustrating.

He does hold out one earbud to her and she makes a show of wiping it with her sleeve before pushing it into her ear. Slumps against his shoulder, his hand warm on her bicep. He keeps up a running commentary throughout the entirety of _Red_ and she finds she really doesn’t hate it. Doesn’t hate the rumble in his chest beneath her chin as he speaks, doesn’t hate him complaining about her hair in his mouth. Doesn’t hate when he asks for a refill of coke and tips the cup towards her.

He falls asleep again, but his arm tightens around her when she tries to move away. Kiara settles for angling her phone screen away from him and looking up compatibility of Cancer’s and Gemini’s. Every site is equally as pessimistic. Cancer’s need for travel and stability; Gemini’s two personalities and longing for freedom. Complete incompatibility of signs. Not that she needs the internet to tell her that; the fact is clear as day.

She’s just interested – okay? She knows that this isn’t going anywhere. Can’t go anywhere. Because JJ Maybank is a wildfire and he burns bright and beautiful and one day he’s going to get bored plodding after her. Stumbling up hills and through forests and looking out over the world. One day he’s going to burn brighter and consume her and leave her charred because that is what he does.

She’s not sure why their rating and description of sexual compatibility being so thoroughly incorrect cheers her up fleetingly. She tries not to take solace in that.

When she wakes up three hours later her cheek is in the crook of JJ’s elbow and he’s barely moving – his toe may be tapping gently against the side of the plane but it’s familiar and soothing. She exhales and sits up, pushes her hair from her face. JJ looks at her.

“You were snoring so loudly,” he tells her gleefully, and she glares at him. “Honestly – it was like someone had snuck a hog on board. I thought about maybe smothering you for your own dignity.” He grins sharply at her glare. “Aw, babe, don’t worry. You can be my emotional support hog.”

They have another meal and Kiara doesn’t even know which one this is supposed to be. Maybe breakfast, because it’s congealed scrambled eggs and some cold cut meat. JJ covers it with the provided sachet of ketchup and eats the entire contents in four mouthfuls.

The heat is shocking as they step onto the tarmac. The sun is full and overhead. They’re wrapped in sweatpants and sweatshirts and JJ cuts her a look, her carry on purse hooked over his shoulder.

“You’re gonna be so sweaty,” he predicts, and he ducks as she digs him in the ribs. “I can already see your forehead glistening-”

“Oh, my God.”

Bangkok International Airport is big and bustling. They have to have their fingerprints scanned at border control. Their passports are peered at for a long time. JJ mutters _khob khun khap_ belligerently, because he watches language videos for every place they visit in order to memorise a few key phrases. It takes an age for their backpacks to bump onto the rotating conveyor belt. JJ heaves them both off, holds hers up. She’s tied her sweatshirt around her hips and the bottom of her t-shirt up.

They take the train and then walk the rest of the way to the hotel. It’s nothing like Europe and she knows they’re staring – at the street food courts lining the sidewalk, at the snake that is just nonchalantly devouring a still-thrashing rat in the gutter. JJ points that one out. People are just stepping around it casually.

Vendors have pulled canopies over the sidewalk, audacious in their vivid colours. They pass countless statues of Buddha and other deities. There are portraits of the current King everywhere. Offerings next to every statue – flowers, candles, uncapped bottles of sugary drinks.

Kiara is glad she’s opted for a hotel – they’re about a quarter of the price of European ones with the conversion rate from American dollars. They’re asked to remove their shoes in the lobby and follow the receptionist whose slippered feet are light on the sparkling tiles. She presses their floor in the elevator, passes them their room key cards and bows her head.

“I’m dead,” JJ announces. He falls face first onto the bed. “Deceased. Gone.”

Kiara’s spinning the dial for the AC, turning it right down. Sweat cools on the back of her neck, her t-shirt sticking to her spine where it’s been trapped between her backpack. The bathroom’s cavernous; white tiles and two matching waterfall showerheads. JJ’s at her shoulder, laughing, saying, “oh, shit,” as he trips inside and twists one on experimentally. He holds a hand under the spray. Glances over his shoulder before he starts pulling his shirt off.

Kiara rolls her eyes and leaves but doesn’t close the door fully. Can hear him start singing _Chandalier_ , which has complex vocals at the best of times. He calls, “Kie, are you hearing these acoustics!” and his voice echoes. Then, quieter and mostly to himself, “oh my God, the a-poo-stics.”

Maybe it’s travel weariness and eagerness to get into bed – maybe it’s sleep deprivation, delirium. But Kiara retrieves her shampoo and conditioner from her washbag. She strips down to her underwear and slips through the door. JJ’s revelling in the spray – is catching water in his mouth and spitting it down the drain. Is humming the two lines of _Chandelier_ he actually knows, snatches of lyrics.

He turns as she switches on the second shower next to him. His gaze flickers over her, quickly rest on her face as she unbuckles her bralette. Kicks off her briefs.

“Uh,” it’s a noise more than anything. His hair is plastered to his forehead and over his eyes. One hand pushes it back.

Kiara hands him her shampoo. “You forgot this.”

“Fuck.” He’s staring resolutely at the bottle. Focusses on unlidding it and pouring the designated amount into one palm.

She’s emboldened by the way he’s suddenly clumsy, the grasp on the bottle uncertain. How his body suddenly seems too big for his actions.

“Here.” She scrapes the shampoo from his palm and steps behind him. Pulls him out of the shower’s stream by his shoulder. Runs her hands through his hair, nails scraping at his scalp.

The noise he makes is somewhere between a sigh and a groan and he drops his head back, moves into her hands. She pushes him back under the water, cups a hand on his forehead so the shampoo can’t run into his eyes.

“I’m trying really hard not to objectify you,” he informs her when she steps back under her own shower. It takes a while to ensure her hair is sufficiently damp enough for the shampoo. JJ’s mostly staring at the wall or the ceiling, but he keeps snatching looks at her. She’s shy and confident all at once. Because his gaze is almost reverent, his eyes wide. Even when she piles her hair onto her head to shampoo it.

“Free pass for half an hour.”

“Thank fuck,” he sighs, and he looks at her straight then. “You look hot as fuck, Kie. Like… I dunno, like you should be some statue here. All gold and shit. I’d bring you flowers everyday.”

“That’s a big commitment.”

“Not much else to do besides worship you.”

His lips touch her shoulder seconds after he’s twisted his shower off. Before she can react, before she can turn around and pull him in, he’s backed away. Pulls one of the biggest towels she’s ever seen off the heated towel rack and wraps it around his waist. Kiara’s combing her fingers through her hair, ensuring conditioner coats to the very ends.

“You want room service?” he asks, once he’s dried his hair roughly with another towel which he promptly drops on the floor. He’s looking at her and it’s the mundanity of it, the casualness.

“Yeah.”

She dries her hair with a cotton shirt and covers herself with cocoa butter. Pulls on one of JJ’s t-shirts because all of their clothes are jumbled together now, just an amalgamation of whatever’s closest and smells the freshest.

JJ’s dozing, stretched out in a pair of track shorts and nothing else. Turns sleepily towards her when she lies next to him. Hooks his hand under her shoulder and pulls her towards him; his nose to her shoulder blade. “You smell like Hershey’s,” he mumbles. He licks her arm briefly, gags. “Don’t taste like Hershey’s.”

“It’s cocoa butter lotion, not actual cocoa butter. Dumbass.”

They eat room service and fall asleep because they’re jetlagged and tired. Which means Kiara wakes up at 4am and her head’s on JJ’s arm and his face is lit by his phone’s screen as he watches some video, earbud in one ear. It looks like some twenty minute long Vine compilation.

He locks the screen as she sits up.

“I’m really fucking awake,” he tells her.

They end up doing handstands and JJ tries to walk on his hands. Keeps falling in a crumpled heap. He tries to squat with her on his shoulders – tries to do a press-up with her sitting cross-legged on his back. Eventually his arms give way and he collapses to the plush carpet, panting. Kiara smacks a kiss to the back of his sweat slicked neck.

“Cute,” she deadpans, then jumps up and shows him how press-ups should be done.

Kiara does a handstand to a bridge and he dips his fingers into her armpit, making her shriek and fall. But his hands are on her hips, pulling her upright, pulling her to him.

They stand close, breathing in each other’s air. Kiara steps towards him, crowds him, pushes his chest until his knees hit the bed and he sits, her hand on his shoulder.

His hands slide under her t-shirt, anchor around her waist. Kiara straddles his knees, links her arms behind his neck. JJ looks at her without expectation.

It’s the first time not fuelled by emotion; it’s the first time because she likes the way he looks at her, the closeness. The first time she wants him to keep speaking, to hum _I think I like Thailand_ into her shoulder and not feel like she wants to push him away. The first time she lets him pause, properly, gaze everywhere, wanting and needing. She pulls him to her after a long moment, nips her teeth into the sensitive skin of his neck just to hear him gasp in her ear.

She can’t help but wonder if this is what it’s like for him, with the Touron girls. Whether he looks at them with eyes like the ocean, whether he drops feather light kisses on their cheekbones, whether he flips them so they’re on top and he can just watch, his lip between his teeth, incisors making indents in the chapped skin.

He still says, “told you I could,” smugly, because they’d put their playlist on quietly whilst doing handstands and _Let’s Get It On_ has played all the way through. Which should ruin the mood. It should also ruin the mood when he says, “hey, I was thinking about doing this ocean clean up thing,” in a chatty way – as he’s taking over again and she’s collapsing into the mattress, boneless, a groan in her throat.

“Stay on task,” she reprimands, and all she can see is a flash of white teeth near her thigh.

“Yessir.”

He tells her about the ocean clean up afterwards, her head on his chest and his hand in her hair. “You do beach clean ups and count birds and shit. And you can dive and snorkel and stuff.”

“Did Pope send you this?” she tips her head to look at his face and he pouts at the assertion.

“I can Google, y’know.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Yeah, I definitely prefer cock drunk Kie. Much less sass.”

Kiara gasps, sits up. “I do not get-”

“Oh, you so do,” he’s smirking now, peering through eyelashes, shit eating grin taking firm residence. “It’s understandable. No need to be embarrassed.”

“I hate you,” she decides firmly. But she’s maybe a little woozy, so she slams her head back onto his chest.

“Sure you do. Although, that’s not what you were saying five minutes ago.”

When it’s light outside they venture onto the streets of Bangkok. It’s a strange dichotomy going from parkas and scarves and gloves to shorts and crop tops. They have to cover their shoulders and knees to go into the palace grounds – JJ pulls on the emergency waterproof poncho she always carries with a little too much relish. He swishes it dramatically every time he moves – spins it around so the hood covers his face and marches towards her like a zombie. Kiara lets him collide with a metal barrier.

They get Thai basil chicken from a street vendor and Kiara watches with glee as JJ struggles once more with chopsticks. His brow creases with frustration and he keeps demanding she shows him the correct grip once more. He still finishes before her, so pulls up the volunteering website to show her. Kiara chews slowly and makes affirmative noises.

“Good,” he tucks his phone away. “’cause it’s booked for two days’ time.” He grins as she bumps her shoulder against his.

Bangkok is big and loud and hot. They have to purchase Thai sim cards to use their network, use a specialist taxi app called Grab to get around. The cars that turn up are battered and most missing seatbelts. There are rickshaws everywhere, weaving in and out of the traffic.

They take a sleeper train to Krabi. The bunks are narrow and Kiara barely sleeps, tenses every time the train jolts on the tracks. The toilet bowl opens straight onto the tracks – she glances into it and can see the ground moving. Has to hold onto the sink as she pees for fear of falling down it, although logically she knows she wouldn’t fit.

JJ laughs when she tells him about her irrational fear. “Yeah, you definitely wouldn’t fit,” he tells her once he’s evaluated. “Though I could pee onto the tracks which is pretty cool.”

They get picked up in some battered white minibus, their surnames scrawled on a whiteboard.

Their driver beams at them, presses his hands together over his chest and bows his head in greeting. “Welcome, welcome,” he takes both of their backpacks simultaneously, despite definitely not looking strong enough to do so. The air con is blasting on the bus and Kiara sits under one of the vents, tilting her head back. “It’s not so far!” the driver informs them cheerfully, and then he presses his elbow on the horn and leans out the open window to shout at another driver.

There’s sand on the roads and palm trees everywhere. They trundle through the town slowly, past food stalls and markets. JJ’s pressed up against the window, keeps nudging Kiara every time he sees a monk with their shaved heads and orange robes.

They’re shown to a dorm and kick their shoes off at the door. It has a screen door and slowly rotating ceiling fans. The floor’s sandy, but the sheets are clean. There are only small lockers for personal belongings – Kiara extracts their passports and money and locks them in hers.

“Dinner is in a few hours,” Arthit tells them, and he’s still beaming. “The beach is not far – just there,” he points through some palm trees. “And dinner is there,” he points at long tables with benches under a wooden, sturdily built canopy with a palm leaf roof. Kiara thinks she sees a kitchen area behind the tables.

The sand is warm beneath her feet. There’s a path beneath the palm trees which opens immediately onto the beach. The ocean is impossibly blue.

JJ whoops and then he’s straight up sprinting across the sand and splashing into the water.

They’re given induction the next day and immediately go to a beach clean-up. They’re provided with different coloured bags based upon the recyclability of the debris. Driftwood and seaglass are collected and donated to local jewellery makers.

JJ grabs her ass with the litter pincers and looks around with faux innocence when she turns to glare at him.

Every morning she has to wrestle to get suncream on him. He ducks and dives out the way until she pins him against the wall or his bunk, hands slick with the lotion. Despite her persistence he still burns, peels, then tans.

Arthit seems to like JJ. Likes him even more when they help fix up an old boat with a seized engine. He takes them out and teaches them how to dive – how to slide backwards from the boat with full tanks of oxygen, how to descend and ascend correctly.

They snorkel above coral reefs and take pictures with a specialist camera to monitor progress of the ecosystem.

On days when it rains it’s still warm and they gather under the canopy and make posters encouraging responsible use of beaches. Kiara helps in the kitchen, watches keenly as they grind spices into a paste. Her favourite is tom kha gai soup. The women nod approvingly when she doesn’t back away from spice – they explain in broken English that tourists can’t usually handle their heat. It reminds Kiara of the extra hot concoctions her dad always fed her as a child, to build up resilience or something.

Kiara cackles later on when JJ struggles with her soup, his eyes watering. “It’s really good,” he gasps between sips of pineapple smoothie.

She cries the first time they see turtles. Thankfully she’s underwater, trying not to move. They’re used to people and swim idly around her. She can sense JJ’s grin even though his face is covered with a diving mask.

JJ helps in the garden, turning over soil for plants. Comes across a snake wrapped around a tree branch and Kiara can see his hand inching towards it, even as the gardener shouts something and comes back with a long wooden stick with a hook on the end.

It’s hot under the sun. JJ pulls off his top and wipes sweat from his forehead with his forearm. The chefs all stare from the open-air kitchen. Kiara blends up fresh pineapple and ice and takes him a glass.

“You’re really gross,” she tells him as sweat trickles down his chest. JJ smirks, puts his glass on the ground. Kiara shrieks as he chases her, trying to push her head into his armpit.

They sit in hammocks in the evening, sipping Chang beer from the bottle. There’s a cacophony of noises from insects around them. They constantly smell of deet insect repellent and their legs are covered in red, risen lumps from bites. Geckos crowd towards any light source. Kiara checks under the toilet seat and every corner of the bathroom before she uses the toilet or the shower.

They’ve been there for seven weeks. Then it’s JJ’s birthday, because he’s precisely one month older than her.

For his birthday she hires two bikes and makes a list of all the extreme sports in the vicinity. They go cliff diving off a rock just off the shore of a local island, having watched the locals jumping in carefully. They have to swim out to the rock and when Kiara clambers over the sea-slicked rockface she realises she’s the only girl there. JJ jumps first – she watches him landing a perfect dive. He shouts up to her, treading water.

Next is rock climbing up a cliff face. Her foot slips but JJ’s there, telling her where to reach for next. They have a guide at the bottom and ropes but it still feels mostly unsafe.

He rings his dad when he thinks she’s not looking. Luke doesn’t pick up. Doesn’t message him back either.

Kiara sends video after video to the _Pogues (and Sarah)_ group chat.

It starts raining whilst they’re jet skiing. Thick, heavy raindrops of the rainy season. It soaks through her tank, the bright colours of her bikini instantly visible. JJ’s laughing, tipping his head back, mouth open and tongue out to catch the drops.

She goes down on him in the shower because it’s the one place with any privacy. His head falls against the tiled wall and he has his hand on her shoulder.

“You could’ve just led with that,” he tells her, words a mumble against her shoulder. “Not wasted any money on all the other stuff. Still would have been the best birthday.”

For his present she gives him a Chilly’s bottle covered with turtle print. A hammered bronze ring from Athens. He twists it onto his pinkie where it sits above his mom’s wedding band.

She’s asked the chefs to make a cake and they bring out a mango and coconut layered delight. JJ dips his finger into the icing and gets rapped across the hand with the dull side of a knife.

Eventually, once he’s had a few beers, he sits still and lets her cut his hair. The kitchen staff hover around, tugging at strands she’s missed. Her hands are steadied by the three calming beers she’s consumed. Hair falls to the floor. He peers through his eyelashes at her whilst she trims the front, his knees bracketing her legs.

“You better not fuck up my good looks,” he threatens. “They’re all I’ve got.”

She can’t help the look that creeps onto her face as she assesses her handiwork. JJ scowls at her. “Kie!” he whines.

“It’ll grow,” she tugs at a lock, then mutters, “you better hope it does, anyway.”

It’s apparently all too much for the head of the kitchen Kamon who elbows her out the way with a short _tsk_ and starts snipping. JJ’s eyes widen as the hair keeps falling, but it slowly starts to even out. When Kamon’s done (after stepping back and nodding at her own prowess) JJ runs his hands through his hair, scrubbing at the stray hairs. Takes off his shirt and shakes it out. It’s shorter than it has been in a while – but not bad. Just different.

Her birthday creeps around before Kiara even realises. They’ve been there a whole extra month. JJ isn’t in his bunk when she wakes up. She finds him outside talking to Arthit, a cooler at his feet. He raises a hand when he sees her emerging from the dorm, sandals on her feet and sleep gritting her eyes.

“Happy birthday!” Arthit greets, and JJ bumps his knuckles against her arm.

“Thanks,” she grins. “Bird survey today, right?”

Arthit grins. “No, no work today. Have a good time!” and he trots off, humming lightly.

JJ’s grinning at his retreating back. “Grab your sunglasses,” he tells her, and he hefts the cooler onto one forearm. “And that really hot green bikini!” he shouts as she walks away.

There’s a boat anchored in the shallows of the beach. Which means someone’s been up early to bring it around from the jetty, loaded on the trailer of the battered jeep. JJ’s singing under his breath, swinging the cooler, a backpack slung across his shoulders. They wade through the shallows – JJ throws the cooler in and jumps aboard. Offers Kiara his hand to pull her up.

It’s the same boat they helped fix up. The engine splutters to life in minor protest, chugging faintly. JJ hauls in the small anchor, adjusts his cap on his head as he considers a piece of paper with what looks like scrawled directions.

The sun’s low in the sky but already hot. Kiara opens the cooler and laughs when she finds it’s mostly full of beer.

“Is there anything but alcohol?” she asks in exasperation.

“Should be some water. Fruit for breakfast, and that weird papaya salad thing you really like,” he defends, and he takes his gaze off the sea and the horizon to look at her briefly. “Besides, it’s your birthday. Birthday beers.”

She hands him a beer to uncap with his teeth because of course he hasn’t remembered a bottle opener.

The boat chugs steadily for an hour. Kiara makes fun of his concentration face and eats mango with her fingers. JJ flicks a bottle cap so it bounces off her forehead. It’s still early, most of the tour operator boats not yet on their routes. Finally, JJ stops, the boat bobbing gently in the water. He pulls out snorkels and masks. Kiara finishes her beer before following JJ’s lead and stripping down to her bikini. Takes the pro-offered mask.

“Arthit says there are manta rays and turtles around here,” he explains. “Just before the tours disturb them.”

Kiara takes a selfie of them in their masks, JJ’s arm slung around her shoulders.

It takes ten minutes of swimming before she spots the first turtle. They have to swim closer to the reef, away from the boat. Kiara’s glad for the flippers and the mask and doesn’t think too much about the wide expanse of open sea surrounding them. JJ sees it first, grabs her ankle and points. The creature circles slowly below them, fins paddling idly. It’s just the same as the first time. Maybe even better because it’s just the two of them, the sun breaking across the ocean’s surface and refracting light across them like a kaleidoscope.

They circle slowly over the reef, sucking air greedily through their snorkel. Kiara gets claustrophobic once or twice; surfaces to breath unaided.

Her heart lurches in her chest with deep seated primal fear when she sees the reef shark. It’s cruising along the bottom of the reef, tail flicking predatorily. JJ’s not far – she grabs at his hand, though slowly, not wanting to make ripples and alert the animal to their presence. JJ forms the diving sign of okay with his finger and thumb. Kiara shakes her head rapidly. JJ points to the surface but she really doesn’t want to take her eyes off the shark.

It’s not the first shark they’ve seen – and apparently they’re harmless unless threatened. It still shakes her. She keeps her hand clamped around JJ’s wrist until the shark finally, finally swims away.

She rips her mask off and gasps in air.

“I think I saw Nemo,” JJ tells her nonchalantly.

“There was a shark right there!”

JJ flicks her a look. “Yeah, reef shark. They’re cool.”

Her limbs are buzzing with adrenaline, her pulse racing. It slowly fades, bubbles out as a laugh instead. “Fuck. _Fuck._ ”

“C’mon,” JJ starts swimming back towards the boat.

He pulls himself onto the still bobbing boat with irritating ease. Kiara knocks his hand away and pulls herself up slightly less elegantly.

JJ’s already uncapped two beers and holds one out. The glass bottle is cold but the sun’s heating up, heavy on her shoulders as she sweeps her hair into a top knot on her head.

JJ’s rifling through his backpack, turning out all the pockets. Finally, he pulls out a slightly crumpled joint. He twists the end, pulls out his lighter triumphantly. It’s the only consistent possession Kiara has seen JJ consciously keep track of – he’s had it for years. Kiara suspects it was palmed from some Touron store summers ago.

He holds the joint out, a grin on his lips. Kiara shakes her head at him. “I’m not even going to ask where you got this.”

“Best not.”

It’s been a while – longer than a while. Six whole months since Christmas. Kiara tilts her head towards the sun as she blows the smoke away. JJ joins her on the deck, his shoulder and arm warm against hers.

“For your last birthday we took the Pogue out and did this,” he explains, fingers grazing hers as he takes the joint. “You seemed to like that.”

“This is good,” she sips at the beer and looks out at the sea. “Perfect, actually.” JJ passes the joint back, holding the smoke in his lungs. Waves one hand dismissively. Kiara smacks a kiss to his cheek and smoke leaks from his nose. “Thank you, JJ.”

They play cards and drink more beer. Kiara roots for chips in his backpack and finds a whole ream of condoms. Flicks one at his head with a smirk. “Assuming anything, Maybank?” she deadpans as he tries to look innocent.

JJ presents her with a leather travel journal, the cover patterned like a map of the world. _Kie_ is embossed onto the front of it in gold italics.

“For all your lyrics and shit,” he explains, and he’s picking at the label on his bottle of Chang like he always does when he’s trying to avoid anything with any emotional gravitas.

Kiara opens it. He’s written _Kie, Happy birthday! – JJ_ on the front page in his scrawling print. There’s an ink smudge on the bottom of the page.

“I love it,” she can’t look at him without doing something stupid. There’s silence for a few seconds until she hooks an arm around his neck, pulls him closer with a sigh against his lips. “I suppose we better make a start on that condom stash.”

A tour boat comes by at precisely the wrong moment – JJ grabs for a towel, hovers over her protectively. Kiara throws her hands over her eyes, blood rushing to her face.

“Reckon they saw much?” she whispers between her fingers.

“Uh,” JJ pushes a lock of hair out of her face with his nose. “No.”

“Liar.”

He kisses her neck and her embarrassment is forgotten.

They eat the papaya salad with their fingers because he didn’t think of cutlery. Kiara makes him drink two whole bottles of water and smear sunscreen on his face and shoulders. Aims kicks at his knees when he pees off the back of the boat.

They snorkel again, but not for as long. She reckons it may be a slightly stupid idea considering they’re under many influences. The water slides beneath her gaze, shimmering incandescently. She breaks the surface and JJ’s seconds behind her, his eyes red under the mask.

“I’m way too high for this,” she says, but it’s muffled by her snorkel tube. She spits it out and tries again.

“Probably,” JJ agrees. Then, “again?”

She thinks she falls asleep on the ride back. One minute she’s staring up at the blue sky and the next the boat’s bumping onto the sand, JJ heaving the anchor overboard. They wade to the beach and shower all the sand off their legs and the salt from their skin with the outside shower. JJ aims the showerhead in her face until she wrestles it from him in retaliation. She collapses into a hammock between two palm trees and JJ drops next to her, which threatens physics until it all settles. He pushes his chin into her shoulder and she winds her arms around his neck.

“Best birthday ever,” she hums.

“That’s only ‘cause your weed tolerance is now super low,” he explains, but she thinks he looks proud regardless. “Like, embarrassingly low. Worse than Pope low.”

“Shut the fuck up JJ.”

They leave after another ten days. JJ looks slightly emotional as he hugs Arthit. The kitchen staff crowd around Kiara, talking over each other in Thai. A box of what Kiara thinks is papaya salad is pressed into her hand. They fill her Chilly’s bottle with her favourite pineapple drink.

They go along the southern coast. Are standing on a beach in Phuket when a lightning storm hits, illuminating the night sky. They both film it.

“Mine looks cooler,” JJ tells her. “Look, this filter is better.”

Kiara looks at his screen. “Filter?”

“Yeah,” he taps his screen to show her. “Here.”

“You mean the cracks in your screen?” JJ looks at her. “No, really. If you send me that video it won’t have that.”

He doesn’t talk to her for ten minutes when she’s proven correct.

They go north – to Chiang Mai. They visit temples, wearing long sleeves and trousers. Have to take their shoes off and remember not to turn their backs to any Buddha statue or show their feet to anyone when they kneel on the floor. Go to Pai, with endless forests and mountains and rice fields. Their hostel owner cheerfully informs them that there’s a hike to a waterfall shaped like an elephant’s head. Tells them that it’s an easy hike, that her friend’s four-year-old does it.

Two hours in, Kiara’s marvelling at the fitness levels of the four-year-old. JJ carries a large stick because he’s more than a little scared of snakes. He’d also Googled what snakes they could potentially come across and scared himself further.

They finally, finally find the waterfall. Have to pull themselves up a muddy bank using nothing but a worn rope tied to some trees. Kiara falls at one point, her shorts skidding down the bank. JJ shouts down to check whether she’s okay.

“Fine!” she assures him, digging her toes into the dirt and wrapping the rope around her hands. “Is this four year old fucking Spiderman or something?”

It’s kind of worth it at the top. She takes her shoes off and splashes through so she’s on the central rock. Peers over the edge, as close as she dares. The water crashes onto the rocks below, white and foamy.

Thailand is green and beautiful and vast. Kiara researches for days before finding the most humane elephant sanctuary they can. They walk through the forest with the animals and feed them sugarcane and bananas. Their handlers explain that it’s a careful balance between buying older elephants from the local riding camps and therefore giving them more money to buy younger elephants and maintain the cycle of abuse, but also not letting elephants suffer forever.

It makes her sad. Especially the scars on an older elephant’s head, which are from a spiked hook used previously to control them. JJ presses a kiss to her temple, his arm around her shoulders.

They get tattoos using the traditional bamboo Thai Sak Yant method. JJ gets the outline of a wave on his forearm. Kiara gets a dolphin on her ribs, which makes JJ laugh. Kiara tries to talk him out of the placement of his, cites his job prospects.

“What prospects?” he buries his elbow into her ribs. “Kie, I’m full Kook now. I don’t need any job prospects.”

She goes first so she can’t chicken out. Clutches JJ’s hand tightly. He talks shit, as usual. Starts telling her about how much he appreciates the jets in all the bathrooms.

“My ass has never been so clean,” he informs her gravely. “Seriously – just blast, pat dry, and you’re good to go. I’m a fan.”

It makes her grimace and laugh and forget all about the pain for a second. Every time she goes to look at the tattoo in progress JJ tips her chin back towards him.

He does stare when he’s having his done, her hand clamped firmly in his, his palm slick,

They post the results in _Pogues (plus Sarah)._

 **Pope [4:54]:** You’re going to get some super funky disease and die.

 **Pope [4:56]:** And you can’t say I didn’t warn you.

 **Pope [4:56]:** AND that’s provided you don’t go up in a blaze of glory in a bike crash.

 **John B [5:01]:** I mean, YOLO

 **Pope [5:10]:** YOLO until you die of Hepatitis A and B and maybe C

Vietnam is similar to Thailand but completely different. Tourism isn’t quite as popular, a hangover from the war. The disparity in incomes is even starker, which Kiara finds hard. Locals are friendly, welcoming, but they are looking at them for money. They prefer to use US dollars rather than the Vietnamese dong. It’s strange to be handling familiar money after almost a year of foreign currencies.

They almost get scammed twice, and JJ’s card almost gets cloned once. He reaches across the counter and grabs at the man’s wrists before he does, pulling the paper from the machine and tearing it in half.

They hire motorbikes despite Pope texting them several times not to. JJ sends a picture between the handlebars. Pope responds with statistics regarding deaths of tourists from riding.

Kiara rides behind JJ until she feels comfortable on her own bike. He teaches her all of the basics, hand fisted over hers. They hit Southern Vietnam during the wet season. Rainstorms are sudden and unexpected, soaking through clothes to skin within seconds.

They eat Pho for breakfast and JJ becomes addicted to Goi cuan, spring rolls filled with meat and vegetables.

It takes four weeks to go from South to North. A mixture of bikes, trains and buses. They’re often squished onto buses with locals trying to make it up mountains – one time the radiator on one bus goes. JJ swings around to the front where the driver has the hood propped open and is frowning. Kiara and JJ bicker about the likely solution until JJ tips water into the radiator.

The bus starts up after half an hour of being left to cool. JJ smirks triumphantly. An elderly lady wordlessly offers JJ a boiled egg which he takes gratefully.

Their social media is filled with Sarah, Pope ad John B and their exploits back in Outer Banks. They’re on summer break from college. Kiara catches JJ watching the stories more than once. Pressing the contact number for his dad despite never getting a response.

It’s not entirely a surprise when he says, “I think I’m going to go back.”

But she plays dumb anyway. “Back? To the hostel?”

JJ doesn’t look directly at her. “To Outer Banks.”

They’re sitting in a doorway of some building eating out of cardboard takeout boxes from a street vendor who had flash fried their choices in front of them with a bored expression. Earlier Kiara had haggled with a woman in a market stall for a silver ring which was now banded around her little toe. She’s slowly building up a stash of jewellery.

“Oh.”

JJ rubs a hand along his jaw. “They’re on summer break right now. And it’s almost been a year. My dad…”

“Yeah, no, it makes sense.” She tries to distract herself with her meal. “I mean, we’ve had a good run, right?”

JJ looks at her sharply. Looks like something’s stuck in his mind but can’t be put into words. “You could come visit your parents as well.”

They both snatch their feet in closer as someone passes by on a bike. “Maybe,” she acquiesces. Because – she has thought about it. It’s been seven months since she’s seen them and they keep asking when she’s coming home.

A big part of her thinks that she doesn’t want this to end.

It’s an administrative exercise then. Booking flights and transfers and ensuring everything’s in order. On the last day before they fly someone tries to snatch her bag from her shoulder – the bag with their passports, their money. JJ comes flying from somewhere, grabs the strap and yanks hard. The would-be thief has a bandana over their face and looks back, shocked, before being swallowed by the crowd.

They get a train to Hanoi. A flight from there to Los Angeles. Then a transfer to Norfolk. The layover in Los Angeles is eight hours and they have some weird pay hourly sleeping pods in one of the departure lounges. Showers in the locker rooms. They shower, brush their teeth, and then collapse into the three-quarter sized bed for six hours of the best sleep she’s ever had.

They’re still sleep bleared and jet lagged. Take a transfer bus from the airport to the mainland. Then the ferry, captained by the still miserable Greg. He eyes JJ with a wariness that Kiara hasn’t seen levelled at the blonde for a while.

They have their backpacks at their feet and Kiara’s head on JJ’s shoulder when a deep voice says, “well, I’ll be damned.”

Heyward is looking at them wryly, crates of supplies stacked behind him. “Yvonne didn’t mention you would be back in town, kid,” he says, but his eyes are crinkling at the corner as he considers JJ.

“Surprise,” JJ’s voice rolls around a yawn. “Well, it’s supposed to be.”

“Colour me surprised,” Heyward’s lips look like they’re going to quirk into a smile despite all his best efforts not to. “Just a visit or is this it?”

Kiara can feel JJ sliding a look her way before he shrugs. “Undecided.”

“Well, you come on round with John B on Sunday. Yvonne will be thrilled to see you.” The ferry bumps to the dock and Greg moves in his painstakingly slow way to lower the planks of wood that serve as a departure ramp. “You kids need a ride anywhere?”

They’ve dragged themselves into standing, pulled their backpacks on. JJ looks at Kiara, then smiles. “Why thank you, chief. How about the Chateau?”

Kiara tunes out most of their chatter on the way. JJ slowly wakes up, staring through the window at the familiar streets. Heyward’s pick-up clatters on pot holes and snags in the road. JJ rolls up his sleeve to show off his new black ink. Heyward shakes his head at him.

They roll to a stop outside the Chateau, which makes Kiara ache with the familiarity. The same worn wooden boards, the same dirt drive. There are three boards abandoned without reason near the door. Kiara thinks she can hear laughter, but it could be a trick of her sleep deprivation.

They leave their backpacks outside the door. JJ presses a finger to his lips and creaks the door open, treading lightly. He beckons for her to follow. There are voices – she thinks she can hear John B, maybe Pope. Sarah’s light laugh.

JJ slams the porch door open. Yells, “police!” and holds his hands in front of him like a gun.

Pope’s the first to recover. He’s launched himself up from the worn couch, eyes wide, hands out, but then he relaxes. “You fucking _asshole_ ,” he snaps, but he’s darted across the porch and pulled JJ into one of the rare Pope hugs.

John B lurches into action. “What? What!” he joins the JJ sandwich, arms tight around his neck. “I thought you were in Vietnam?!”

Pope pulls back. “Where’s Kie?”

There probably couldn’t be a better cue. Kiara steps through the screen door, half-waves. “Surprise?”

“Oh, shit!” now John B’s pulling her into the hug and she’s grinning against what she thinks is Pope’s arm.

Sarah joins in after a moment, her floral perfume a sharp contrast to the salt and sweat of the boy’s skin.

They’re released after a moment and everyone’s talking at once – John B says, “damn, that tan puts mine to shame,” and holds up an arm to JJ’s.

Pope’s rolling back JJ’s sleeve, frowning at the tattoo. “It doesn’t _look_ infected-”

Sarah’s saying, “Kie your hair’s so long now. Oh, cool rings-”

It’s overwhelming and JJ hasn’t looked at her properly since the ferry.

John B disappears inside and re-appears with an armful of beers. Hands them out one by one. JJ uncaps his on his teeth and Kiara sighs but hands hers to him to do as well. He throws himself onto the floor, back to the railings. Kiara settles for the couch next to Pope, who has his arm stretched out along the back and keeps shooting looks between her and JJ.

John B is perched on the arm of the armchair – Sarah lounges in the chair, her white crop top flashing a perfect expanse of toned, tanned stomach. She might see Kiara looking. Tips her bottle her way and says, “I think I have to formally welcome you to team queer,” with a grin.

Kiara tilts her bottle in response. “And Pope.”

Pope raises his bottle. JJ’s caught up in a conversation with John B – the latter taps his friend’s shoulder with his foot.

Kiara chats to Pope about college. Is drawn into his discussion about his most recent cadaver dissection. He’s halfway through describing cutting through someone’s cheek (like cutting through a peach, and with a surprising amount of fat under the skin, apparently) when Sarah’s voice rings out loudly.

“So are you and Kie like, together?”

Even Pope’s jaw snaps shut at that, the rest of the sentence cut off. Silence falls over the porch. Kiara looks between John B and Pope and finally at JJ.

He’s not looking at her. He’s staring at the bottle in his hand with a blank look on his face. Finally, he shrugs a shoulder. The silence is beyond uncomfortable. “We fuck occasionally,” he admits, and she thinks it’s the coarseness rather than the content that grates.

Pope says, “dude,” quietly.

Meanwhile, John B’s gasping, looking between them. “You two – are – what?”

“Oh my God, bro. They were banging in Italy,” Pope can’t help but point out.

“One time in Venice,” JJ mutters.

“Dude!” John B kicks at JJ’s face. JJ pushes him out the way. “You didn’t tell me?”

“I am right here,” Kiara drawls dryly. “You know, your best friend. Sitting here. Listening to all of this.”

“We’ll get to you,” John B dismisses. “JJ – bro. I thought we were bothers. Family. What about no Pogue-on-Pogue macking?”

“I was the last one to break that rule,” JJ leans his head back against the railings, tilts his head towards John B. Sarah frowns at her boyfriend.

Kiara stands up abruptly and all gazes snap to her. “This has been fun,” she says brightly, falsely. “But I should probably go see my folks before word gets back and the surprise is ruined.” She remembers her backpack outside the front door. Feels the familiar pull in her back muscles from carrying it. “John B – can I borrow the van?”

John B’s frowning at JJ, still kicking at his shoulder. Glances up briefly. “Yeah, sure. Keys are on the side.”

The side usually means the kitchen or the table. She starts with the table. The keys clatter to the floor as she shifts some unopened bills around.

JJ appears around the side of the shack as she’s unlocking the van. The right door always sticks – she’s forgotten how you have to jiggle and lift the handle precisely right for it to relent and slide open. It takes her a minute to remember how to do it.

When she turns around, JJ’s standing a few meters away. He still has his beer in one hand.

“Kie,” he says quietly.

“Sorry, no time for an occasional fuck right now. I’m sure there are some Tourons, if you’re looking,” her tone manages to shoot straight past breezy into the land of wounded.

JJ blinks rapidly, frowns. “You may be embarrassed or whatever but I’m not going to _lie_ to my best friends.”

“Embarrassed?” now she’s blinking at him. “What?”

“Fuck, Kie, I know I’m hardly Pope or even John B fucking level. But I’m not blind or stupid, okay? I know we’re not gonna work. Just some fucking experiment, I don’t know. But I’m not going to lie about it.”

She’s jetlagged and just so bone achingly tired. The fight dissipates in one swoop. “Right, fine, whatever JJ. Do what the fuck you want, like always.” The strap of her backpack gets caught on the seat as she pushes it in. She unhooks it with one hand, sends the bag sliding across the floor of the van. Slams the door behind it.

The driver’s door creaks on its hinges as she pulls it open. The van smells cleaner than perhaps it has before. Less of weed. It still starts first time, engine rumbling to life.

There’s the sound of shattering glass as she pulls away. Almost like JJ’s launched the beer bottle at a tree or the side of the Chateau. She doesn’t look back.

Her mom’s out as she pulls up at home. Her dad comes out curiously, drawn by the van’s engine on the driveway. He looks politely curious as he recognises the vehicle. His jaw drops as she emerges from the front. As she holds her arms open and collapses into him.

“Oh, baby, Kiara, baby,” his hands run over her hair, her back. Pulls back to look at her face. A few tears are tracking down her face and she’s not even sure whether they’re happy or sad. Just are. “God, your mom’s going to lose her shit,” his chest rumbles when he chuckles. He retrieves her backpack and carry on from the van and herds her paternally towards the house. Fixes her up a lunch of leftovers from the fridge. He keeps pressing a hand to her shoulder, to her hair, like he can’t believe she’s sitting in their kitchen.

He makes her sit in the living room when her mom gets back. Anna clatters through the door, asking curiously, “why’s that Routledge’s kid’s van on our driveway?”

The shriek she emits when she sees Kiara standing next to the couch could summon all the neighbourhood’s dogs. She races across the room yelling Kiara’s name, pulls her into a hug. Pulls back to run her eyes over her. Her hair, thrown into a bun after the shower at the airport. The sweats and one of JJ’s sweatshirts.

“Oh, you look well,” Kiara wonders if well means anything else. Keeps the smile on her face anyway. Her mom squeezes her shoulder, shoots a loaded look at her dad. “Did you know about this?”

“She just turned up today,” he denies.

“Oh, honey,” her mom smiles at her. But then it drops, her brow creasing with concern. “Is everything okay? You’re not… in trouble, or danger, or anything?”

Kiara thinks her eyes flick briefly to her stomach. “Oh, God, no. Everything’s good. Just thought I’d come back for a bit, see everyone. See home.”

“You’re going again?”

“Yeah,” there’s no hesitation, just resolve. “Probably in about a month or so. See how it goes.”

The air’s charged with emotion, crackling with tension. Her dad steps forwards to dissipate. “Well, that’s great. We’re so glad you’re here, honey.”

“Yes, of course. You can tell us all about your trip,” her mom finally releases her, starts chattering away. “I’ll just go make up your bed – poor dear, you look _exhausted_.”

Kiara shares a look with a dad as her mom darts off.

“Are you sure everything’s okay?” her dad asks her gently, his gaze soft on her.

“Yup,” she confirms. “I’m just tired, y’know? It’s been three whole days of trains and buses and planes – I know you just sit there, but it’s weirdly exhausting.”

“And JJ…?”

“He’s back too. At John B’s. Yeah, he’s peachy too.”

Her dad looks at her for a moment more, then nods. “Okay.”

Anna reappears, and she starts talking before she’s even walked through the door. Regales Kiara with tales of work. Her dad discusses the pay it forwards wall at The Wreck in a lull. Her mom gasps, “oh, I’ll have to tell your aunt,” and darts off the kitchen to make the phone call. Takes a picture of her in the middle of the living room with her backpack on, which Kiara is sure will make its way onto Facebook within the hour with some embarrassing caption and equally inappropriately selected emojis.

Her mom bullies her dad into picking up take-out from The Wreck. Offers to split a burger with Kiara. She agrees but only because she’s tired and half delirious.

It’s after eight before she manages to extract herself and slink upstairs. Her mom’s pulled a dusty pink satin pair of pyjamas out of her drawers and placed them on her pillow. Before she can think too deeply about it, she’s already rifled in her backpack and pulled out a t-shirt. It’s whilst she’s brushing her teeth and she sees her reflection that she realises it’s one of JJ’s.

There are several messages when she charges and switches her phone back on.

 **Pope [3:01]:** Do I need to punch JJ in the throat?

 **Pope [3:01]:** Just say the word and I will.

 **Pope [3:02]:** I know the anatomy of the face now. I can do some real damage.

**John B [4:41]:** Well we have MUCHOS to discuss, you sneaky devil!!

 **John B [7:43]:** JJ is being light on the details – what have you done to him?? Is he now a man?? Oh tell me it’s not so!!

**Sarah [5:34]:** hi

 **Sarah [5:34]:** sorry about earlier

 **Sarah [5:35]:** i didn’t mean to make things awkward

 **Sarah [5:35]:** i shouldn’t have assumed

 **Sarah [5:36]:** sorry

She scrolls to the thread between her and JJ, just in case she missed the notification. The last text between them is from over twenty-four hours ago – one asking her whether she’s fallen down the toilet and whether he should be concerned. _i won’t hesitate to come in there, bitch._

Despite her tiredness; despite the fact she has to peer at her phone with one eye closed to still the words; despite the fact this is her bed, in her house, with her sheets. It still takes over an hour to fall asleep. It feels like something’s missing, something big, something that could make her breath easier, and she doesn’t know what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is potentially the penultimate chapter. depends how they all behave in the next chapter. 
> 
> thank you all so much for your lovely comments and words and everything. they really mean the world!!!


	12. home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this chapter hit the 14k mark and i still wasn't done. this is the penultimate chapter. FOR REAL THIS TIME

*

Kiara’s not avoiding the Pogues.

John B comes over the next day to pick up the van. His bright voice draws her downstairs, rubbing sleep from her eyes and squinting through heavy eyelids. Her dad and John B are in the kitchen – John B has a mug of coffee in one hand.

“Good morning!” he greets as Kiara slinks into the kitchen and pours a cup of coffee from the pot. “We’re heading to Rixon’s later on. You coming?”

She sees her dad looking at her. “Probably skip it today. Mom’s got some event at the Country Club tomorrow. Think we might be going shopping instead.”

“Oh, Sarah’s going to the mainland today to shop as well. You should go together!”

John B takes the van, then reappears two hours later to drop Sarah off. Pope’s hitched a ride – he gets drawn into a conversation with Kiara’s dad about college before Anna starts bustling around, grabbing her purse and her car keys because she wants to take the bridge.

Sarah maintains easy conversation the whole way. Enthuses about the pictures Kiara has been sending or posting, chats about Thailand and Vietnam. Her mom keeps glancing at Kiara and smiling, pressing a hand briefly to her knee. Kiara catches Sarah staring at the exchange once and it makes her heart jolt with regret. Sometimes she forgets how much they’ve all lost.

Sarah pulls up a picture of the dress she’s wearing and Anna makes all the appropriate noises. It’s some charity event – Anna had managed to pull a spare ticket for Kiara from somewhere.

“It’s no Midsummer’s,” Anna sighs regretfully as she starts pushing hangers along a rail, metal squealing in protest. “But there is an auction and it is for charity, so it should be good.”

Sarah’s pulled out a turquoise dress, holds it up to Kiara. Puts it back on the rack.

“What we thinking?” Sarah asks Anna, completely bypassing Kiara. “I think mid-length. Maybe white. Your skin is glowing at the moment, Kie.”

“She looks amazing in jewel colours.”

Kiara half-heartedly paws through one rail but is soon ushered into the bijoux changing rooms with an armful of dresses.

The second dress is the one. It’s somewhere between purple and red, but not quite burgendy. Nipped in at the waist, a fancy neckline.

“Oh yeah,” Sarah nods. “You look incredible.”

Kiara pays and the dress is folded into a pink candy-striped bag with ribbon handles. They stand outside the boutique half an hour after entering it and there’s something in the way her mom holds her keys and looks a little disappointed.

“Lunch?” Kiara suggests. Her mom’s face brightens.

They end up in a bistro which is mostly metal – polished metal tables, polished metal chairs. All three of them order some variation on the chef’s salad.

“Dressings on the side, please,” Anna smiles at the server as they hand the menu’s back.

Talk moves onto the rest of Kiara’s outfit. Sarah brings up a Pinterest board with unnerving speed, starts flicking through appropriate shoes.

“I thought I’d just borrow your gold sandals, mom,” Kiara explains, and her shoulders tighten, braced for impact.

“A dress like that needs heels, Kie,” Sarah tells her dismissively. Tilts her phone screen Kiara’s way so she can see the shoes on the screen. “Besides, you can afford them.”

It’s blithe, almost trivialising. Both Anna and Kiara’s gazes flicker to the blonde as she continues scrolling through her phone.

“It’s less waste,” Kiara points out. “And I’ve not worn in heels in almost a year – I don’t want to break my ankle.”

“They are nice sandals,” her mom relents. Kiara spears some chicken in victory. “You’re going to have to get rid of all that… string, though.” Anna touches a hand to the bracelets on Kiara’s wrist.

They’re colourful and audacious and some are a lot more ragged than others. JJ’s slowly gotten better at making them – although he always opts for bold, clashing colours. Often ties a different coloured thread in when he runs out of one. They’re a jumbled mess and the only way to get them off is to cut them.

“I like them,” Kiara protests.

“Right,” her mom looks at her with a spark of amusement in her eyes. Then, “oh, I don’t think this needs all the dressing, honey. It’s got a lot of flavour as it is,” as Kiara picks up the small bowl of dressing.

They browse the boutique stores that sell overpriced homeware and don’t pay their staff enough, considering they’re all trained to address customers as _ma’am_ and _sir_ unironically. It jolts with Kiara, the trained attentiveness, the way Sarah trails her hands over things, picks things up and puts things down and no one’s looking at her with suspicion. No one’s got an eye on her pockets.

Her mom talks idly. Kiara can see her staring at a painting on the wall. She even checks the price tag. It’s a watercolour of a beach somewhere. Kiara thinks it’s somewhere on the North side of the Island.

Kiara buys it – takes it from the wall and places it on the counter. Her mom’s the other side of the shop and Kiara hides the bag behind the one for her dress, glad it’s oversized.

They drop Sarah off at the end of her driveway. She hauls all her bags out, having indulged herself at several stores.

“It’s nice to see you two being friends again,” Anna comments as they pull away. Sarah’s waving over her shoulder at the departing car. “All… that with her dad, her brother. Such a shame.”

“They did it to themselves,” Kiara points out emphatically.

Anna insists she hangs up her dress on the padded hanger immediately to prevent creases. Kiara hides the bag with the watercolour at the end of her bed. Her travelling backpack sits on the floor, packing cubes and clothes spilling out. Kiara picks out some items for the laundry. There’s the classic mixture of all hers and JJ’s clothes, half worn. His sweatshirt smells of him.

“Good day?” her dad’s voice interrupts her thought process. Kiara looks up to where he leans in the doorway. JJ’s sweatshirt is still in her hands.

“Yeah, it was nice.” Kiara stops, is overwhelmed with a feeling akin to being homesick. “Want to go fishing tomorrow?”

“We’re men down at The Wreck tomorrow,” his tone is apologetic. “Maybe Sunday?”

The next day stretches out before her when she wakes up, and her mom goes back to work. She works in marketing or something which involves power suits and heels and cutting comments clipped into her phone. She passes a hand over Kiara’s hair as she marches past her in the kitchen, sniping, “do I really have to go over this again, Lewis?” to some unsuspecting individual on the end of the line.

Kiara shares a look with her dad.

Kiara hadn’t slept well yet again. Her bed is too vast, the sheets too soft. Her limbs keep expecting to come into contact with a warm body or a wall or the edge of the bed. There are dark shadows under her eyes and a lag in her movements.

“Any plans today?” Mike asks as he flips a blueberry pancake onto her plate. It arches in the air and she moves her plate to catch it, like always.

“Not really.”

“Not making trouble over on the Cut?” he slides her a sideways grin to take any sting out. Kiara shrugs.

“Might come put in a shift down The Wreck, actually. If you’ll have me.”

“Is everything okay, honey?”

Kiara frowns. “Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t it be? Is it a crime to want to spend some time with my old man?”

Her dad’s quiet for a beat. His voice sounds thicker when he speaks. “Hey, less of the old. No crime. You’re welcome anytime. But you will have to work.”

“I’ve been picking up trash off beaches for months. I can work.”

There are a few servers back on their summer break from college and picking up the extra shifts.

“Heya, girl!” Penny greets her easily, pulling her into a hug. “I thought you were off trotting the globe?”

Kiara catches an apron her dad throws her. “Just back for a bit. Thought I’d see what’s occurring.”

“Good for you. Stay grounded.” Penny nudges her on the way past and it almost knocks Kiara off her feet. Penny’s a state wrestler and can carry more trays than any other server they’ve ever hired.

It’s muscle memory to help prepare and chop vegetables. Some things have shifted in the kitchen – she has to ask the sous chef three times where specific things are now stored. It’s melancholy and familiar all at once.

Things become manic for the lunchtime rush. It’s a blur of hands – of plates thunking into the industrial sink, the dishwasher whirring into action. Of shouted orders, sweat beading on foreheads.

Kiara keeps looking around for something that isn’t there. Keeps expecting to have to snatch the knife out of the way, or brush someone’s hand off fries as she pulls them from the fryer. She catches her dad shooting her looks once or twice as she stares blankly to her left or right before continuing.

Things finally settle around three. Kiara’s sitting on one of the metal units in the kitchen beside her dad, who’s sighed but not scolded at her choice of chair. She’s watching as he chops celery and onion for the base of a soup he’s trialling.

“We’re trying to stay more local with our suppliers,” he explains. “And trying to make the menu more seasonal. But not overcomplicated. Good, local food.”

It makes her feel fond and proud. That some of her rants have clearly been half heard. There’s a board outside that has meal tickets for anyone that may not be able to afford one. Her dad says wryly that it’s popular with the residents of Figure Eight, to make them feel charitable. Kiara tells him all about the things she’s learnt in the Thai kitchen.

“You’ll have to show me some recipes,” he tells her as he adds stock to the pot and turns the heat up.

“Kiara,” Penny is wiping her hands on her apron. “Your boys are out front.”

Kiara glances at her dad. Mike looks at her and his lips are quirked at the corners fondly. “You’re not an employee anymore. You can do what you want.”

“I always did, even when I was an employee.”

He laughs, flicks a towel over his shoulder. “Very true.” He tilts his chin towards the fryers and the heat lamps. “Probably some leftovers, if you want them.”

There’s a knot of anxiety in her chest as she rounds the corner from the kitchen and into the dining room. There are a few diners, but the Pogues make up the majority of the noise level with their ruckus. Kiara balances bowls of fries and a few hastily concocted burgers on a plate up her arm. Pope sees her precarious balancing act and leaps up to take a plate. Kiara beams at him gratefully.

John B and JJ are engrossed in an arm-wrestling competition. Pope starts chewing on fries by the handful, watching them closely.

“JJ’s scrappy,” he appraises. “But damn – John B’s biceps.”

“They are a thing of beauty,” Kiara agrees. John B glances up, his lips spreading into an easy grin. JJ takes advantage of his momentary distraction and forces his hand closer to the table with a grunt.

Penny brings out a tray of glasses and a pitcher of iced tea. Kiara glances towards the kitchen and sees her dad raising his eyebrows at her.

“What are we, royalty?” JJ snipes as the glass is set down next to him. He’s yet to look at her – his eyes are focussed purely on his and John B’s clasped hands as they waver, forearms trembling.

An alarm blares on JJ’s phone and it gives John B the opportunity to slam JJ’s knuckles to the table triumphantly.

“Fuckin’ told you,” he crows, pinning JJ’s hand to the wood. “Oh, I’ve still got it.”

JJ extracts his hand, pulls his phone out of his pocket and silences the alarm. “Oh yeah? You must have been doing a lot of something for forearms like that,” he shoots at John B.

“Whatever, man,” John B pulls fries across the table and starts eating handfuls. “What are all those alarms for anyway?”

It’s the first look JJ’s shot Kiara’s way. It slides off her, like oil and water. “I’ve got stuff to do, people to see,” he breezes, and he pushes his chair backwards with a squeal of protest from the distressed wooden floorboards.

“Right,” John B’s still smug, a mouth full of potato and reaching for iced tea. “Me and Sarah have that thing this evening. Try not to burn the house down.”

“No promises.” JJ’s pulling his cap off, putting it back on his head. He clasps one hand to Pope’s shoulder (who presses two fingers to his wrist in acknowledgement) then pauses as he passes Kie. She thinks he’ll reach out maybe, jostle her shoulder. Maybe just slide her a smile, a grin, tell her she looks good in her apron - it makes her breath easier, anticipating the familiarity.

Instead, he ducks past and out the door.

“I’m surprised he can still walk,” Pope comments, and he’s pouring himself iced tea. Kiara throws herself down into the chair opposite, tension leaking from her shoulders. It’s replaced with cold fury. “He was so wasted last night. Tried to jump from tree to tree – thought he’d shattered his ankle.”

Kiara rolls her eyes. In the pocket of her apron, her phone buzzes. She slides it out.

**JJ [3:23]:** have you even had lunch

She leaves him on read. Asshole.

It’s easy to get lost in John B and Pope’s easy chatter. It’s mostly John B talking about college and Sarah with Kiara and Pope interjecting every now and then. JJ’s mentioned in passing and John B looks like he’s about to bring something up, but Pope kicks him under the table. Eventually, John B lopes off to the bathroom.

Pope, in a way that is unusually direct for him, says, “JJ was really fucked up last night. He said you two argued.”

It’s usually John B who’s trusted with the emotional nuances of the Pogue’s inter-relationships. After her, maybe. She’s been mediating the boys for years.

“Yeah. Kind of. It’ll be okay.”

Pope’s gaze is unwavering. “He seemed pretty cut up about it.” Kiara frowns at the pitcher, opens her mouth. But Pope’s ploughing on. “I did say – you’ve gotta be careful with him. He’s not like me or John B. We can just bounce back.”

It’s not clear precisely why she suddenly has the urge to cry. She focusses on sipping her iced tea instead. “There’s nothing to bounce back from. We’re just fucking occasionally, apparently,” which still hurts as much as when JJ said it, gaze blank.

“Is that what it is?” Pope’s head tilts. “Really?”

Kiara presses her lips together, shrugs. Checks the time on her phone. There’s a message from her mom who says she’s got out of work early, does Kiara want to get ready for this evening with her? Then another, saying she’s got facemasks.

“The alarms go off every meal time,” Pope says quietly.

Kiara slides her phone into her pocket. “Yeah, I know. I’m Pavlov’s dog.” Pope squints at her, as if she’s a particularly troublesome sudoku puzzle. 

“Anger is usually a secondary emotion to something else,” Pope proposes finally, and if it weren’t Pope, Kiara would be concerned by the tenuous thread and links this conversation contained. But Pope measured out words and thought of their meaning. Tried to covey things that took minutes to decipher. “We learnt that in our psychology module. And the human-chimp brain thought process.”

It’s easy to pass a hand over Pope’s shoulder. “I know, Popey. We went over that at Christmas whilst you were high. It was enlightening.” She’s getting to her feet just as John B slides back into his chair. “Mom wants to do facemasks or some shit, so I’m gonna split. John B, I’ll see you later. I hope Sarah can tie your tie for you, because you suck. Pope – have a good evening watching Youtube dissections or whatever. Love you.”

There’s a soft chorus of _love you_ in response and she’s glad it’s stuck – she started saying _love you_ every time she left the group when she realised JJ and John B probably didn’t hear it much, being raised by men. It was before Big John went missing, before she realised what a living piece of shit Luke actually was.

Kiara hangs her apron on the hooks in the kitchen. Her dad’s rinsing soap suds from his arms.

“Hang on, honey,” he calls across the room. “I’ll give you a ride.”

It’s only ten minutes in the car and that’s mostly because of the various stop signs. Kiara had been campaigning for her dad to bike to work for years. Sometimes he did, but there was a hill on the way back. They used to live on the same block as The Wreck, until her mom’s career had really taken off and they’d moved over to the fringes of Figure Eight.

Her dad’s quiet on the ride home. He turns off the engine on their driveway but makes no move to get out of the vehicle.

“Sometimes,” he starts, and Kiara looks at him. “Sometimes life isn’t about who we want to be with. Sometimes it’s who we can’t see ourselves without.”

Anna’s in the kitchen smashing something in a bowl. She smiles at the sight of them both, presses a kiss to her dad’s temple. Her arms are covered in some sort of green goo. Her eyes flicker over Kiara shortly.

“I think facemasks then shower,” she decides. She comes closer and wrinkles her nose. “You smell like grease. Never mind, shower first. I’ve got you a hair mask.” There’s a bag on the kitchen table – Anna rifles through it, humming quietly. Pushes a bottle into Kiara’s hands and ushers her upstairs. “Don’t be too long! There’s not much time!” she calls up the stairs as Kiara disappears into the bathroom.

The shower is still a luxury compared to the weak jets she’s grown accustomed to. There aren’t any unexpected visitors in insect form either, which is always a big bonus. The hair mask is some banana concoction and is slimy in her hands. Kiara combs it through her hair with her fingers doubtfully. Indulges in her mom’s fancy shaving cream and razor, swiping it over her legs.

She reappears in her bath robe, rubbing cocoa butter into her arms and legs. Her mom giggles as she paints the avocado concoction onto her face. Then Kiara covers her mom’s face, tries to avoid getting her hair in it.

“Any drinks, ladies?” her dad asks wryly as they sit next to each other on the couch, eyes closed, Bob Marley playing softly on the speaker.

“Gin and tonic?” Kiara queries at the same time as her mom says, “wine?”

The tonic’s slightly flat and the gin definitely isn’t some smooth English brew, but it’s sharp and still good. She asks her mom about her day and Anna seems surprised before launching into a discussion about a new project she’s getting involved in. Greg keeps challenging her views despite being barely thirty.

“Fucking Greg,” Kiara sighs, and Anna laughs.

“Fucking Greg.”

After the allocated time they wipe their faces clean with a damp cloth.

They both bring their make-up bags and mirrors down and sit cross legged on the couch, mirrors propped on the arms. Kiara foregoes foundation or anything dramatic – just some eyeshadow and mascara. She sees her mom flicking her some looks and waits for the comments. They never come.

“Hair up or down?” Anna asks, winding a curl around her finger and pulling at it gently.

“Not sure. What do you think?”

“Whatever you want, honey. You look beautiful either way.” Her mom’s hand’s on her chin, the metal band of her wedding ring sharp on her skin. Kiara turns into the embrace. Wants to close her eyes and relish at the contact.

They decide on half and half – the front pulled into a braid around the crown of her head. Kiara sits on the floor between her mom’s knees as she braids, her fingers gentle in her hair.

Kiara has to fish out one of the supposedly invisible bras from the back of her underwear drawer. She can still see the lines of it at certain angles under the dress as she examines her appearance critically. It’s also one of those bras that she knows she’s going to be hooking a finger under all night and re-arranging in vain to try and achieve a semblance of comfort.

Her mom and dad are talking quietly when she appears, her mom’s hand on her dad’s arm. Her mom’s wearing a simple navy shift dress, her hair twisted into a chignon. The gold sandals are at the foot of the couch. Kiara buckles them onto her feet, does a spin when her dad requests it. He’s poured another gin and tonic – this one significantly stronger. He shoots her a knowing look when she takes her first sip. He’s wearing his usual tux, the top button already undone.

They take pictures together, the phone perched on the side, on timer. Anna requests Beyonce because she thinks it makes her seem cool. Kiara laughs and makes fun of her but concedes all the same.

The music fades away just as they reach the chorus of Single Ladies. Just as Kiara has one hand in the air, the other twisting her mom under her arm. Kiara frowns, checks her phone where it’s on the side.

John B’s face fills the screen. Still frowning, Kiara answers.

“John B. If you need a ride, we can probably come get you.”

“We don’t need a ride,” John B’s voice is muffled, and Kiara thinks she can hear Sarah in the background. “It’s JJ.”

Her blood runs cold and her body stops moving. Both her parents look at her. “What?”

“He went to his dad’s.” Her breath can’t escape her throat. Her stomach rolls like the deck of the Pogue. “Kie – he attacked Sarah. I can’t deal with him. He’s gone insane in the yard – he’s smashing shit. I don’t know what to do.” His voice is low and urgent and she can see him in her mind’s eye pulling at his hair in frustration, can see him pacing around the Chateau and peering out the window.

“Is he still there?”

“Yeah, he’s – well, currently he’s kicking the chicken coop in. He usually runs out of steam pretty fast, though.”

“Is he hurt?”

“What?”

“JJ. Did his dad hurt him?”

“Fuck, I don’t know,” Kiara hears him relaying the question to Sarah in the background. His voice gets louder. “I don’t think so. I don’t know.”

“Okay. Shit. Hang on, I’ll call you back in a minute.”

Both Anna and Mike are watching as she hangs up. She presses the phone to her chin for a moment. Thinks of the evening her mom had planned – of the meal, the band. The ticket Anna had procured at the last minute. Their opinion of the Pogues has never precisely been high.

“You should go,” Anna breaks the silence eventually.

Kiara thinks she might cry if she talks, but she does anyway. “He went to his dad’s.”

There’s a sweatshirt from the laundry on the side in the kitchen and she pulls it on. Exchanges the gold sandals for converse.

“I’m sorry,” she tells her parents as they stand in the kitchen.

“Your friends need you,” her dad has one arm wrapped around her mom’s shoulders.

“I’ll make a donation to the charity,” Kiara promises, and her mom surges across the kitchen with a laugh and wraps her arms briefly around her daughter’s shoulders.

“Getting ready has been the best fun. Now - go.”

Kiara borrows her dad’s SUV and drives to the Chateau carefully. The door opens before she reaches it – John B and Sarah wait in the hallway. John B walks backwards as they head to the living room, tripping over his feet and his words.

“Fuck, Kie – he went nuts, he was all quiet and sulky and Sarah just went near him and he pushed her into a wall and then screamed and stormed outside and started kicking and smashing the coop. I just – I can’t deal with this, right now – I though he’d grown out of this shit.”

Kiara looks at Sarah, quickly ascertaining whether she had any injuries. “You okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” the girl nods quickly. She’s wearing a yellow dress which offsets her dark tan, her hair twisted into fancy braids. “I was just going to give him a hug. He looked like he could do with one.”

Kiara nods. “Yeah. He doesn’t really like to be touched though.”

Sarah’s laugh is short and disbelieving. “He touches you guys all the time.”

“Yeah but… He knows us. And it took until this year before he’s actually been okay with me.” Sarah’s still looking at her. “Probably because of his dad. Kinda shat on anything physical.” Sarah’s still staring uncomprehendingly. Kiara shoots a frown at John B. “You have told her, right?”

John B heaves a sigh. “It’s JJ’s thing to tell.”

“Not when it affects us all!” Kiara can hear her voice rising incredulously. “I mean, the whole secrecy thing was over when JJ started making jokes about it.”

“About what?” Sarah looks between John B and Kiara.

“He’s my best friend, Kie.”

“And she’s your girlfriend! JJ would expect you to tell her.” Kiara refocuses on Sarah. Figures now isn’t the time to for anything other than being blunt. “JJ’s dad is a piece of shit and has been beating him for years. I don’t even know how long. Which is why he’s weird about physical contact. _Especially_ if he’s just been to see his dad.”

Kiara fixes John B with a glare so ferocious that he backs away with his hands raised placatingly. “Don’t blame me! I’m not Luke! He just – he can’t go around attacking people because he’s pissed off.”

“It was more just pushing me off,” Sarah defends. “Which now makes a lot more sense. In fact, his entire personality makes a lot more sense. Fuck. Poor JJ.”

“Poor JJ? Sarah, he pushed you-”

“You weren’t so concerned about violence when he was taking a beating for you, John B,” Kiara’s voice is icy cold and she’s not even sure where it’s coming from. “You weren’t concerned what would happen when his dad found out about The Phantom – you weren’t concerned what would happen when you were chasing after gold. About how he would afford restitution. JJ would follow you to the end of the Earth – he’d steal his dad’s most prized possession; he’d fight a gun wielding coked-up dealer for you. He’d pull a gun on somebody to save your life.”

Her breath is coming in gasps, anger and fight and blazing heat. “I’m sorry about your dad, I really am. But you can’t act like you’re the only one who’s lost something. JJ’s in foster care as well, his mom skipped too. It took you three weeks to contact us. Did the boat not have comms? No one have a phone? JJ was drinking and went missing all the time – we kept thinking maybe his dad had got him, but for real this time. He adores you. So, yeah, the least you could do was tell your girlfriend about Luke and not fucking touch him when he’s obviously going through some shit.”

John B’s staring, his jaw locked. Sarah has her hand on his shoulder. There’s an impasse in the space between them.

It’s broken by Sarah saying, “I did say they weren’t just fucking,” in a smug voice.

John B breaths out heavily, raggedly. Accepts his girlfriend’s placating hand on his shoulder. “Fine,” he relents, “maybe he didn’t attack Sarah.”

“Definitely didn’t,” Sarah confirms. “And I won’t try and hug him again.”

“He still should sort out his anger problem.”

“You did say you wanted to get rid of the coop,” Sarah points out. “He’s just helped dismantle it.” There’s a pause and they all stand, considering. “Go get your shoes,” Sarah tells John B, and he traipses off towards his room, muttering something under his breath. Sarah fixes Kiara with a look. “Do you like him?”

“John B? Yeah. He’s okay. When he’s not being an asshole.”

“No,” Sarah tuts. “JJ. Do you like him?”

“He’s my best friend.”

“I didn’t have you down as the casual hook up type. Might have tried that once, if I’d known it was your thing.”

Kiara frowns slightly, dismisses it quickly. “It’s not really my thing.”

“Right.” Sarah’s smile is bright, like she’s solved something. “Well, JJ’s still in the yard, last time I checked. He had a bunch of weed so he’s probably in orbit somewhere.” John B trails back into the room, laces untied. The look Sarah shoots him is proud and fond and so intimate that Kiara wants to look away from them.

Instead she goes to the screen door and takes a steadying breath. Says, “have a good night, guys,” over her shoulder.

“You too. Hope you don’t get beaten up. First aid kit’s on the side,” John B bites out, and he’s out the door before Kiara can retort. Sarah rolls her eyes at his dramatics but follows him anyway.

Okay, maybe Kiara hasn’t been avoiding the Pogues. Just avoiding one of them. There are nerves in her stomach and anxiety coiled behind her breastbone. Her hand’s on the screen door for several long seconds before she finally pushes it open.

JJ’s lying on the ground. The air smells of the sharp, sweet scent of weed. The coop is meters away – a mess of splintered wood, chicken wire and exposed nails. Kiara’s just thankful that he has his thick soled boots on.

“Hey,” she says, once she’s close enough. His head doesn’t turn towards her. Kiara makes an executive decision and sits on the ground near him. Crosses her hands over her chest and focusses on the murky water of the marsh rather than looking at him. It’s remarkably similar to how someone may approach a cornered animal.

JJ’s silent and still. Only his hand moves, lifting the joint to his lips. Smoke trickles from between his lips. It’s barely even an exhale.

“John B says you’ve been to your dad’s.” He’s still staring at the sky. The sun’s getting lower in the sky, basking them in a warm glow and orange light. “Did he hurt you?”

Her eyes run over him – over his knuckles, which are split and swollen. Which could be from the coop or a fight. There aren’t any marks on his face, but she’s learnt by now that that doesn’t necessarily mean much.

“Don’t you have some country club thing tonight?” his voice is empty when he finally speaks, and he still looks at the sky.

“JJ,” it’s quiet and soft.

“I don’t need babysitting.”

“Who said I’m babysitting?”

“Why else would John B call you?”

“Maybe because we’re friends, and we’ve been with each other twenty-four seven for a year. Might have something to do with it.”

“I’m fine now,” he flicks a dismissive hand at her. She’s tempted to grab it, push it away from her. But she doesn’t.

“You’re sitting next to a smashed-up coop and getting really high. Not exactly a stellar example of being fine.”

Kiara wonders whether it’s normal to feel like there’s some sort of gravitational pull towards people. Whether she should be wanting to put her head on his chest and want his hand in her hair right now.

“God, you’re always so emotional,” he complains. “This is why you should never shit where you eat. ‘cause they then want to talk about emotions and meaning.”

It stings, but she thinks it’s supposed to. JJ’s always crueller when he feels like he’s on the back foot.

Kiara sits up and reaches out to snatch the joint from him. But his arm moves, quickly, and his whole body flinches away from her. She stills immediately, not touching him. Brings her arm slowly to her knees.

“I’d never hurt you,” she tells him, and her body aches with the want to pull him to her in comfort. “JJ, I swear to God. I would never hit you. I know we joke around and stuff, but I never would.”

His hand comes up, the joint extended between two fingers. Kiara takes it, careful not to graze his skin.

“I know,” he says eventually. “Just sometimes my body doesn’t. Which is why when Sarah… I bet John B fucking hates me right now.”

“We had words,” Kiara keeps her tone neutral. “Sarah didn’t know, about your dad. She’s not mad. John B will cool off in a while.”

Kiara takes a drag on the joint, leans back on one hand. Blows out smoke to the sky.

JJ’s head’s finally turned to look at her, eyes steady on her face. They’re bloodshot and red rimmed. “You could still make it, if you left now.”

“I’m not leaving.”

There’s a huff of something, maybe laughter. “Everyone always leaves. In the end, everyone goes.”

“Not me. Not tonight.”

“If I asked, would you leave?”

Kiara frowns, takes another drag just for something to do with her hands. “Are you asking?”

His tongue touches his bottom lip. One shoulder moves in what could be a shrug. “No,” he admits. Then, “you seem to find me being all up in my emotions a turn on, so I’m holding out for that, to be honest.”

Kiara heaves a sigh. “Keep dreaming, Maybank.”

“Oh, I do. I dream and I dream and I dream.”

Kiara can’t figure out if he’s being JJ, or if he’s high, or if he’s still bitter. She tries again. “Are you hurt?”

This time JJ heaves a sigh, as if the question is boring him. “No. Luke doesn’t really do that anymore, since he realised I can fight back. Kind of takes the fun out of cock fighting if your chicken’s the same size and weight as you.”

It makes her heart hurt and her stomach twist. She holds out the joint and he takes it, but she lets her thumb run briefly over his knuckles. He stares at the contact. “Whatever he’s said, it isn’t true.”

JJ laughs and it’s bitter and empty and twisted. “What, so my mom didn’t leave me? And I didn’t flunk out of school because I’m dumb as shit? And my friends haven’t all left me behind?”

“JJ-”

“Kiara,” he mimics back.

“You’re definitely not dumb as shit, and your friends haven’t left you behind. Fuck, we’ve just been around the world. And if you were here – they’d visit. You’d visit them. They’re just at college.”

“What sort of mom leaves their kid? I was five, Kie.” It’s quiet and heart wrenching. He’s back to looking at the sky.

“I don’t know, babe. I don’t know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Her hand’s on the ground and it’s inches from his. So close that she creeps her hand closer, until she can lie her pinkie next to his. He’s turned his head at the contact, observes it in a detached way. It’s the pinkie with his mom’s wedding ring; the bronze ring stacked above it.

He doesn’t move away. Takes a drag of the joint. “Are we gonna fuck now?”

Kiara smiles despite herself. “Absolutely not.”

“Worth a try,” he hums, and she lets him try to lighten the mood for a minute. Only because she thinks his eyes aren’t just glassy from weed.

“We’re not going anywhere, JJ.”

“You’re literally only here for a month.”

Her hand is slowly creeping over his. Fingers finding the gaps in his. Interlocking. “We love you.”

He breathes out slowly, exhaling smoke and something more. “Sure you do.”

“No, we do.”

He’s looking at her then, something curling in his mouth. “If you say so.” He’s taking his hand from hers and that hurts, like a blow to the gut, until he lifts his arm and the meaning’s clear. Kiara scoots, puts her head on his shoulder, his arm falling around her.

“You smell like banana,” he mutters in a quiet voice, and he tips his head away to drag at the nearly burnt out joint.

“Mom’s hair mask.”

“Hair what?”

“Mask. Like a face mask. But for hair.”

“The fuck?”

Kiara wonders when JJ started smelling like home. Tries to sniff him without looking weird. His sweatshirt is soft beneath her cheek. Smells like marijuana and mango nectar vape and JJ.

“I’ve missed you,” she tells him. He’s grinding the remnants joint out in the dirt, holding smoke in his lungs. “It’s been weird.”

“Aww,” he coos, but his chin’s in her hair. “Cute.”

“I have,” she insists. Then she’s sitting up and slapping at her calves, scowling at the mosquitos. They whine around her head, near her ear. JJ watches her – she can feel his eyes on her back. “I’m missing a super fancy dinner right now.”

“Bet you didn’t even have lunch.”

Kiara smiles over her shoulder and JJ sighs. Pulls himself into sitting.

He’s definitely more than a little high. He sits on the counter and watches her moving around the kitchen. She finds some vegetables in the fridge, some rice and soy sauce in the cupboard. She does sniff the soy sauce dubiously but figures it’s already fermented so unlikely to do any further harm.

She portions up the basic stir fry and JJ practically falls head first into his bowl.

He puts _Bob’s Burgers_ on John B’s ancient laptop. Balances it on the table so they can just about see it from the couch. JJ’s cuddly and affectionate, draped over her shoulder, pulling Kiara to lie next to him. Kiara runs a hand over his split knuckles, checking for splinters. Untangles herself and fetches the first aid kit so she can disinfect the wounds with antibacterial wipes. JJ lets her hold his wrist loosely, fingertips light on his skin. Once she’s discarded of the used wipes he pulls her back to him, slotted together like Jenga pieces on the small couch.

“I missed you too,” he whispers halfway through the second episode. She smacks a kiss to his forehead and he makes a noise, turning his nose into her collarbone. Her hand’s in his hair before she’s noticed, tugging through the strands.

“Aww,” she whispers back. “Cute.”

He’s ridiculously warm, as always. There’s no air conditioning in the Chateau – either it’s not worth the upgrade because of the little time it’s actually occupied, or John B hasn’t been bothered to arrange for it to be fitted.

They end up in Big John’s old room. Not much has changed with the decor – it’s like JJ is trying to take up as little space as possible. His backpack’s on the floor, barely unpacked. Which does make it easier for Kiara to root through it and pull out a semi-clean t-shirt. JJ sits on the bed watching vaguely as she changes.

“You need to improve your technique,” he advises as she stoops so he can unzip her dress. It takes two goes, his fingers clumsy on the delicate zipper. Finally, he unzips it, hand lingering at the bottom. “I wouldn’t pay for this shit.”

Kiara pushes the straps of her dress down her arms. Looks over her shoulder to him. “Oh, so you’re not enjoying the show?”

“Well, I didn’t say that.”

JJ’s still in a way that he only achieves through extensive abuse of weed. Reaches for her as soon as she sits on the edge of the bed. Pulls her to lie down, his head on her shoulder. Kiara wraps her arms around his neck, her chin resting on his forehead.

“I’m sorry about your parents,” she tells him quietly. “You deserve better, JJ.”

“I was probably a murderer in a past life or something,” he dismisses her attempt at comfort, words muffled against her skin.

“Not in this one, though.”

“Not yet. Gimme a chance.”

She presses a kiss to his forehead, combs her fingers through his hair. Can feel his breath evening out, his body sinking into the mattress.

“We still just fucking occasionally?” she asks.

JJ hums in his throat.

A beam of light spreads across the floor when John B pushes the door open. He takes in JJ, still slumped against Kiara’s shoulder, breaths in even gusts against her neck. JJ’s a light sleeper through years of practice, so Kiara shoots John B a slanted glare. He backs away, pulling the door closed with a smirk.

They wake up separated, Kiara having rolled away from him in the night. He’s still followed her, but kept a gap between them. She doesn’t think he’s woken her up purposefully, but he doesn’t look shocked when she opens her eyes.

“Surf’s good,” he tells her, and he’s clambering over her and out of bed. He pauses for a micro-second with his knees either side of her hips, but before she can react to the hesitation he’s the other side of the room, trying to find some board shorts in his backpack.

“It’s not even eight,” Kiara protests, burrowing further into the covers.

“The sea waits for no man,” JJ informs her gravely. Then adds, “or woman.”

JJ slams into John B and Sarah’s room and is rewarded by a shriek of protest and low grumbling. He emerges rolling his eyes.

“Too hungover, apparently,” he sighs disbelievingly.

There’s a bikini in JJ’s bag and Kiara tries not to think too much about their increasingly apparent co-dependence as JJ holds out a bottle of sunscreen and submits to her coating his shoulders. She calls Pope twice whilst JJ straps boards to the roof of the van.

JJ drives erratically, as always. Kiara slumps in her seat and thinks she’s probably pouting faintly. The beach is mostly empty as they battle their way through the reeds and down the sandbank. It’s early, but the heat of the day can already be felt in the humid air.

They’re definitely out of practice. Kiara gets wiped out far more than she can ever remember. Salt water burns her nose and throat. Every time she surfaces JJ’s never far away, watching the water intently. He smiles every time she re-emerges.

He also shit talks her endlessly. “Have you ever even learnt to surf?” he goads, as she loses her footing once again and tips headfirst into the sea.

It’s gratifying to see him bailing or being dunked as well, although his muscle memory returns quicker than hers does. Eventually, either because he’s bored of watching her wipe out, or hearing her sniping about it, he paddles over and holds her board steady. “Your footwork’s all wrong,” he criticises, and Kiara thinks she should be offended at the assertion but he’s looking at her with clear blue eyes and no mirth.

She makes the suggested adjustments and rides the next wave halfway up the beach. JJ shouts “fucking told you!” from where he’s sat cross legged on his board, watching as she paddles back out. Usually he’d be surveying the sea behind him, judging where the next wave is coming from. Instead he’s just watching her approaching, like she’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. It’s unnerving.

“See, your feet were all fucked,” he enthuses as she draws close enough to speak. “Simple physics, baby. And to think that you were the one that graduated with a decent GPA.”

“Fourth highest,” she confirms, just because she can. JJ has his hands in the water, tracing patterns on his board. Kiara finds her courage, squints at the beach because she thinks she can see Pope jogging across the sand, board under one arm. “You know the other day when you said you thought I was embarrassed,” she starts.

JJ looks away from her, gaze drawn to the beach. “Yeah.”

“What do you think I’m embarrassed about?”

JJ scowls, looks at the sea behind them, then to shore. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Kiara repeats disbelievingly. “Sounded a lot like you did know, to me.”

“What do you want me to say, Kie?” his tone is clipped.

“Maybe just what you mean. Would be a good start.”

“Fine,” he’s turned a glower on her now. “Just – this was all bond to blow up eventually, right? We were always going to come home and then you have to admit that you’ve been screwing me and your parents will be upset and everyone will know that you’re fucking that Maybank kid and that’s your reputation ruined.”

Kiara can feel her face screwing up, and it’s not just at the coarseness of his word choice. “My reputation? What, are we in a period drama? No one gives a shit, JJ.”

JJ shrugs, watches as Pope approaches.

“My parents like you,” JJ cuts her a look, one eyebrow raised, so she clarifies, “okay, maybe more like have got used to you. And I’m not embarrassed. You’re definitely in the top ten of eligible guys on the island. Maybe top five.”

It eases some of the tension from JJ’s shoulders. “Look, Kie, it’s fine,” he dismisses, and he’s looking past her to Pope. “Pope! Hope you’re going to do better than Kie. My heart will break if I have to hang around with two shitty surfers. I have a reputation to maintain, y’know.”

“We all know about your reputation,” Pope rolls his eyes. Shoots Kiara a smile. “Hey, Kie.”

They surf until the waves start decreasing in power. Kiara gives up first – lies on the beach with her board next to her. Sand sticks to her damp skin, but the sun is warm, slowly ramping up to full temperature.

“Is she asleep?” comes Pope’s disembodied voice, disturbing her peace.

“I told you, she sleeps everywhere. Like, all the time.” JJ’s toe nudges her calf. “Kie. We’re hungry. Wreck breakfast?” Kiara pouts a little, doesn’t open her eyes. “Maybe she’s got that sleeping condition. Narcissism.”

“Narcolepsy,” Pope and Kiara correct simultaneously.

“Whatever.” Kiara opens one eye to see JJ shrug, his board under one arm. He stoops and picks hers up as well, tucks it under his other arm. Pope offers his free hand out to help her from the ground. Kiara staggers for a step before correcting herself, brushing sand from her back and thighs.

Pope and JJ bicker amongst themselves as they trudge back across the dunes. JJ casts a look over his shoulder to her, the boards swinging with the motion. Kiara admires the way his muscles move under his tanned skin, the way his hair tapers on his neck. Even his bare feet, heels digging into the soft sand.

Pope’s dad’s truck is in the lot as well. Pope throws his board into the back, pulls a towel from the cab. “See you at The Wreck?”

JJ’s stood on the side of the van, pulling bungee cords tight over the two boards. He’s got a towel around his neck to catch the drips from his hair. “Try not to drive like a grandma,” he scolds Pope. “They stop serving breakfast at twelve.”

“That’s an hour and a half away,” Pope protests.

JJ shoots him a look as he jumps down. “Precisely.”

A droplet of sea water has escaped the towel and trickles down JJ’s collarbone. Kiara pushes off from the van, from where she’s been watching him, reaches for it. JJ watches curiously. Shoots Heyward’s truck a look from where Pope is slowly navigating his way from the lot.

The metal of the van is warm as she backs him against it. His body’s bowed towards her, a furrow between his eyebrows. “Pope can definitely see this,” he tells her in a low voice. “He’s not blind.”

Kiara pulls on the ends of the towel. Pulls until JJ relents, drops his head towards her. Their foreheads touch and she thinks she sees his throat bobbing as he swallows.

“Kie,” he says quietly, but then she kisses him, her hands linking around his neck. And he doesn’t hesitate; pulls her flush to him by her waist, nips her lower lip.

They only break apart because there’s a blare of a car horn – and then some locals Kiara vaguely recognise, one hanging out of the driver’s side window.

“Damn, Maybank!” some kid Kiara thinks is called Leo yells. She turns quickly, puts her hands on her hips. “Oh shit, Kiara! Hey girl!” he’s pulling to a stop, cutting the engine. Far too many people pile out of the truck, some watching, some jumping to extract boards from the roof racks. “Makes sense that’s it you who’s tamed him. I’ve barely seen you around, Maybank.”

JJ’s still behind her, still leant against the van. He pushes off, steps up next to Kiara, a careful distance between them. “Been busy.”

“Oh, I can see that,” Liam smirks, right as someone rounds the front of the car, stripping down to a bikini as she walks.

It’s some classmate of Kiara’s from school. Olivia had always seemed cool, was one of the few who hadn’t stopped talking to Kiara after the whole snitch episode.

“Kiara!” she greets, and it’s mostly natural to breach the gap and give the girl a hug. It’s a bit weird, because they’re both in bikinis, but Kiara rolls with it. “Your Insta is on fire. I’ve been telling Leo we should go on vacation.”

JJ’s done some weird hand clasping thing with Leo, slapped him on the back. They’re talking animatedly, JJ gesturing towards the beach.

“As soon as I saw that first post, I knew you’d get together. Or already had. Whatever,” Olivia’s smiling at her. “Leo said he reckoned JJ had always had a thing for you. Something about Pre-K.”

They both look at him. Kiara wonders whether Olivia can see the glow on his skin, the way his gaze flickers to Kiara every so often. His whole body moves with the conversation – arms, feet, hands running through his damp hair.

“Yo, Kie,” JJ calls eventually, “we gotta split. Otherwise Pope is definitely going to beat us there and we’ll never live that down.”

“Boneyard tomorrow,” Leo’s saying, as Kiara re-joins JJ. She leans into his side and he curves an arm around her shoulders absent-mindedly.

JJ’s sighing. “I don’t know, dude. Aren’t we too old for that shit now?”

“Old?” Leo hoots, and he’s slapping JJ’s shoulder and backing away, taking a board from the ground where they’ve been left. “Kiara – make sure your boy’s there. Things have been a little tame since he stopped bringing guns around.”

Kiara sighs; JJ smirks. Then there’s a chorus of goodbyes and Kiara’s rooting around for towels in the back of the van, passing one to JJ to sit on so he doesn’t leave a damp patch in the fabric of the driver’s seat.

His thoughts are practically tangible, especially when his eyes drop to her chest, then her chin. “We’re not fucking in the van,” she tells him, and has to temper a grin when he sighs loudly.

They bicker over what to play on the AUX – JJ tries to pull driver’s privilege; Kiara holds her phone out of reach and bats his hand away whenever he comes within range.

JJ finally relents when she puts on their playlist. His thumbs tap the steering wheel and he focusses on the road. Touches his tongue to his lower lip, like he’s debating something. Kiara judges her bikini as being dry enough halfway there; reaches into the back to pull on her borrowed shorts and shirt. Throws a t-shirt at the side of JJ’s head.

They pull into The Wreck’s parking lot, looking around as they realise Heyward’s truck is conspicuously absent. It’s explained when Pope pulls in three minutes later, John B tipping out of the passenger’s seat and Sarah jumping gracefully down afterwards. They link hands as they walk towards where JJ and Kiara are sitting, like they can’t bare to be apart.

Kiara shares a look with JJ. “They’re so gross,” he complains under his breath, and Kiara tips her chin in agreement.

Kiara visits her dad in the kitchen quickly before they order. He turns around from the grill as she pats his shoulder, his eyes darting over her face.

“You good?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah, all good. Is mom okay about me ditching?”

“You didn’t ditch,” he turns back to the grill, flips some bacon. “She’s fine. Bit fragile this morning, but all good too. You home for dinner?”

“Yeah, of course.”

JJ’s got his legs on her side of the table, flip flop dangling from his foot. Kiara kicks at his bare calf before finally flinging her legs over his, ankles hooked together.

Kiara orders the breakfast burrito and JJ orders everything, including house fries and hash browns which he positions between them. Kiara steals some and he doesn’t make any move to stop her.

Her dad refuses payment as they all crowd around the cash register. JJ says, “come on, we ain’t charity no more, Mr Carrera.”

“You can always pay it forward,” her dad points out, and then everyone’s paying and ripping off tickets to stick to the wall.

Sarah and John B have both pulled sunglasses over their eyes, frowning at the bright sun. Pope checks his phone and sighs.

“I’ve gotta help my dad,” he explains, and then he’s jogging towards Heyward’s truck. “See you later!”

“I’m gonna go see my mom,” Kiara steals JJ’s sunglasses from his face with one quick movement. He frowns at the loss. Sarah and John B have already made their way to the van, unlocked it with one deft movement.

John B yells, “JJ! I need my bed around about now!” and slams the driver’s door shut to prove his point.

“You okay walking?”

Kiara scrunches her nose at him. “This is home, JJ. In the middle of the day. I think I’ll cope.”

He looks like he wants to say more. Like maybe he wants to reach for her. Then John B leans out the door and yells, “JJ!” in exasperation and the moment’s broken.

“Boneyard tomorrow?” he proposes as he starts backing away. “Pre-game?”

“Maybe. Text me.”

He salutes sarcastically, turns and jogs to the van. John B accelerates out of the lot with a spin of wheels, moving before JJ’s even jumped in. Kiara watches them go, looks at the sun. She only realises when she’s halfway back home that her dad’s SUV is still at John B’s.

Her mom’s lying on the couch with a cool flannel over her eyes when Kiara lets herself into the house. The sight makes her grin. She takes a picture and sends it to her dad. Brings her a glass of cucumber infused water that she swears by - although Kiara notes there’s now re-fillable glass bottles of water in the fridge door with slices of cucumber in them, rather than the type bought in plastic bottles.

They watch _Bend it Like Beckham_ and agree that Keira Knightley is unreasonably attractive. Kiara says, “I think she was my first female crush,” casually, before she can catch herself. Just too used to saying her thoughts out loud. Her mom pauses the film, looks at her intensely. Kiara’s mouth suddenly feels dry. “Uh. Yeah. I like girls.”

“Just girls?” she thinks her mom’s aiming for nonchalant, her expression carefully schooled.

“And boys. And everything in between.”

There’s silence as her mom absorbs this information. “Okay,” she settles on eventually. Her face works for a few seconds more. Then, “as long as you’re happy, honey. That’s all we care about. We did kind of think that you and JJ…”

Kiara busies herself with sipping at her cucumber water, staring at the TV screen. It’s paused on a close up of Kiera Knightley’s face. “Kind of, maybe,” Kiara says eventually, a blush rising on her face. She really does not want to go into more details with her own mom.

Thankfully her mom seems pacified. “You’ve just got to make sure that a man – or woman – treats you well. That they cherish you for who you are. And that they can make you laugh. Because looks will fade, but humour is forever.”

“You’ve been watching too many rom-coms,” Kiara decides, but she’s grateful all the same.

Her dad comes back and leans against the kitchen counter, watching Kiara as she starts preparing the fresh fish he’s brought back from the Wreck.

Anna wanders in and peers over her shoulder. “God – look at all that butter. C’mon guys, think of your arteries.”

There’s another comment over dinner about Kiara reaching for more potatoes, about the amount of sauce she’d taken. They’re idle, blithe. Kiara glances at her dad but he either doesn’t notice or is immune to them.

It takes too long to fall asleep that night.

The next morning she’s shovelling cereal and milk into her mouth, half asleep. Her mom sighs. Picks up the cereal box and scans the back. “Do you know how many calories are in this? It’s just sugar, Kiara.”

Kiara’s spoon clatters down into her bowl. She says, “mom,” and it’s harsh. Her dad pauses from where he’s pouring coffee creamer into his mug.

Kiara reckons it’s as good a time as any. She’s fuelled by irritation and trepidation, her throat closing rapidly. “Mom, dad. Can you sit down? I just wanna say something.”

“Oh God,” her mom clutches at her necklace. Sinks into the chair opposite. Her dad sits next to her, eyes trained on Kiara’s face.

“Okay, so,” Kiara starts, and she fishes desperately for the words. “I kind of have… a thing. About food.” Her parents share a look. “It’s not really bad, or anything. I just – I get anxious, and I worry about how I look, and I skip meals and don’t like feeling out of control about it.”

Her dad says, “sweetheart,” quietly, and Kiara wishes he wouldn’t because it makes her teary.

“I’m fine – I am. But I’m… kind of sensitive, to comments about food and things.”

Her mom’s silent, and her dad hugs her. Kiara feels lighter now she’s said it. 

Anna’s sitting on her bed when she returns to her room after her shower. Kiara feels exposed in just her towel, her hair dripping water.

“I had no idea, Kiara,” her mom is staring at her hands, at the floor. “My mom used to make comments all the time and I hated it – I really did. I swore I’d never be like that.” She puts one arm around Kiara’s shoulders, tips their heads together. “I’m so sorry. I’ll be more conscientious from now on, I swear. You’re the most beautiful person I know and I’m sorry if you’ve not always felt like that.”

“Mom, it’s fine-”

“No, really. Your dad and I are so proud. You’ve not done exactly what we expected, maybe not precisely what we would have wanted. But you’re loyal and honest, you’re kind and considerate. And who needs college, really?”

It’s a little backhanded, a little clumsy. Kiara thinks there’s a compliment in there somewhere. So she hugs her mom and then shoos her out so she can get changed.

**Kiara [10:39]:** Told my parents about the food thing

**JJ [10:39]:** oh so there is a food thing now is there

**JJ [10:40]:** you good??

**Kiara [10:45]:** Yeah, I think so

**Kiara [10:45]:** It was weird but I feel kind of relieved?

**JJ [10:45]:** is this when i say i’m proud of you

**JJ [10:46]:** i’m probably prouder when you shotgun a beer

**JJ [10:47]:** or that one time you did that keg stand

**JJ [10:47]:** still proud of that one

**JJ [10:47]:** dare you to do another tonight

**JJ [10:48]:** but lmk if u wanna talk about it

**JJ [10:49]:** got lunch at pope’s today yvonne is gonna mother me so bad

**Kiara [11:05]:** Have fun! Be nice!

**Kiara [11:06]:** NO KNIVES. They’re Christian

Both of her parents drop her round to the Chateau so they can pick up her dad’s SUV. Her mom says that she could have chosen a nicer outfit for a party, like Kiara chose the cut off denim shorts and fraying crop top just to spite her. She'd also been halfway through some idle comment about Kiara's juice consumption an hour ago, before catching herself. Kiara rolls her eyes, smacks a kiss to both of their cheeks before jumping out the car.

There’s already music pumping from John B’s speaker; some college frat playlist, judging by the fact that _Hotline Bling_ is currently blaring. Pope’s on the couch with a bottle in one hand, watching in amusement as John B twirls Sarah around the room. There’s one notable absence. Kiara greets everyone, grabs a beer from the fridge and tries not to look like she’s searching too obviously.

Pope’s glancing at his phone as Kiara sinks onto the couch next to him. He accepts her feet in his lap grudgingly. “JJ says he’ll meet us there,” he tells her. It’s not an unusual occurrence – JJ often gets caught up at other people’s houses. Especially if he’s gone to his cousin’s to score.

Kiara tries not to fixate on his absence. She challenges John B to down his beer. Sarah pulls Pope up to dance – John B lights up a blunt on the porch. It’s weaker and not as well rolled as JJ’s, but Kiara decides to be nice about it for once.

Kiara puts on Jay-Z and Kanye West (who as individuals she does not agree with, morally, but unfortunately they have their names on some good records). John B tries to roll his hips as Sarah and Kiara do and fails miserably. The attempts make it onto Pope’s Instagram story.

Pope’s the nominated driver, having only had two beers. The van’s loaded with kegs – more than the customary one they always used to provide. Kiara says, “John B!” reproachfully, but he shrugs.

“C’mon, Kie, time to do our part for the community.”

“Only unload two at a time,” Kiara commands. “And keep an eye on all the young ones.”

“Alright, mom,” Pope mutters from the front, but she thinks he’s relieved at the restrictions.

Pope and John B squabble as Pope pulls up in the van. Pope doesn’t want to leave the van anywhere suspicious. John B points out it’s not illegal to park where they are. He covers the kegs in the back over with jackets and towels and stops listening to Pope’s anxieties.

Sarah and Kiara share a joint in the back and Sarah starts giggling. John B shoots her a look that’s fond. “Damn,” he sighs, as his girlfriend giggles again, “that’s her gone for the night.”

Kiara’s limbs are loose, languid, but Sarah had had the majority of the joint and Kiara thinks she knows her limits. She carries the backpack with the cups and the snacks in across her shoulders, keeps hold of Sarah’s arm. The music gets louder as they approach and a cheer goes up when the two kegs are spotted. It’s late – there are plastic cups trampled into the sand, and the usual distinct groups of people have dispersed into dancers, talkers and other arrangements.

Kiara looks around as John B sets up the first keg. There’s the beginning of a firepit, the wood crackling loudly. She can’t see the familiar blonde hair anywhere.

It’s one of those days that’s drawn everyone out from their homes. It’s still warm and light, the sun creeping ever so slowly down the horizon. There are a number of kegs. Kiara sees Penny and joins her group, smiling at the familiar faces. Everyone’s on summer break from college, keen to display their new alcohol tolerance levels.

Sarah pulls her to dance, but she’s far more wasted than Kiara is. It gives her a new lease of life with no inhibitions – all swinging hips, attempts at booty rolls and even a twerk or two.

Kiara finally sees JJ when she breaks away to re-fill her drink. He’s standing to one side with Leo, Olivia and some other locals Kiara vaguely recognises. His shoulders are a taut line, the usual animation missing from his limbs. Instinctively, she knows he’s seen his dad. He’s gulping from the cup in his hand, glancing around the mass of people.

The beer spills over her hands as she re-fills her cup.

“Here,” says a voice, and Kiara glances up. Almost steps back as she comes face to face with Topper. He doesn’t look particularly threatening in a blue button down and boat shoes, sunglasses pushed into his hair. Steadies her cup and helps her refill Sarah’s.

“Thanks,” she mutters, because politeness costs nothing. Turns on her heel and makes to march off.

“Hey, Kiara,” he calls her back. She hesitates, looks over to him. “I’ve been meaning to try and catch you. I just wanted to say… Well, I’m sorry. For all that went down. I’m really sorry. I was all caught up in Sarah and everything happened so fast and I wasn’t thinking straight – I’m just sorry.”

Kiara knows by now that she’s the best opening into the Kooks. That she’s the easiest option for the apology to be fed back to the rest of the group. John B and Sarah are over near where everyone’s dancing; Sarah’s hands are on John B’s shoulders and she’s giggling at something. Pope’s sitting on some driftwood near the fire, talking earnestly to someone next to him. JJ’s not within her eyeline.

“Okay.” She’s hesitant to accept the apology on everyone’s behalf – she doesn’t know what everyone else thinks of Topper. He was small fry compared to Barry and Rafe, in the end.

Some part of her thinks that maybe he’s targeted her because she’s the only woman. That she’s supposed to hand out forgiveness and ease his guilty conscience. He’s standing too close, almost like he wants to lie a hand on her arm to make his point.

“Well,” she chirps eventually. “Good talk, Topper. I’m gonna go now,” and she exits stage left, clutching the beers. Sarah relieves her of one, now settled on the driftwood next to John B and Pope. Pope’s drawn John B into some debate about whether he should open an ice cream parlour in California or not. Pope offers to do the books and source the suppliers – John B sighs heavily that it sounds like a lot of work.

JJ’s finally in the same vague orbit. He’s talking to one of Olivia’s friends, her blonde hair glinting in the dusky light. She’s the opposite of Kiara – blonde, small, curvy, extremely feminine. She’s leaning in, laughing prettily and they haven’t made contact, but Kiara can almost see it playing out in her head. Has been in this position, watching JJ charming someone, more often than not.

She downs her drink and pulls Sarah up to dance once more. Someone holds a joint in the air and she takes it from them, dragging quickly, blowing smoke into their face with a smirk when they turn to see the thief. It’s some Touron guy, who quickly recovers and tries to dance closer, retrieving the joint from her hand. Kiara lets it go with a small pout. Grabs Sarah’s hand, pulling the girl between her and the guy as a barrier.

It’s as she’s stumbling towards the campfire for a break that she remembers why she doesn’t mix. She’s definitely crossfaded – nausea rising in her stomach, dizziness. Her gaze falters and refuses to train on Pope, who sighs at her. “You’re fucked,” he assesses, pulling one eyelid up and peering into her pupils. Kiara pushes at his wrist weakly, slides off the driftwood to the floor because it’s more stable than perching on the log.

“Where’s JJ?” she asks plaintively. John B and Pope share a look.

“Not sure, bud,” John B nudges her gently with one foot. “You good?”

Kiara rolls her head back, leans against the log. “Uh-huh. Peachy.”

She’s not sure how long she sits there, revelling in the vague warmth from the fire and the chatter of her friends. Eventually the pressure in her bladder becomes too much and she struggles to her feet. Almost puts her foot in the fire, rights herself.

“I’m gonna pee,” she announces.

“Be careful,” Pope advises. Kiara waves him off dismissively.

There’s an unofficial designated pee zone in the trees. Mostly unseen from the beach, but definitely not private enough if she was sober. But she’s not, so she leans a shoulder against a tree and pees, yawning loudly.

Maybe she takes the long way back from the trees. Maybe it’s purposeful.

JJ’s sitting on some driftwood around a different fire, still talking to the same girl. Kiara prides herself on being a feminist, a pacifist. It doesn’t stop some distinctly non peaceful and feminist thoughts as she considers the pair.

Finally, she finds her inner zen and turns away. Only to collide with some guy holding too many beers. One splashes down her front, drenching her crop top, icy cold on her skin.

“Oh shit, I am so sorry – fuck-” the guy babbles, and Kiara stares at the dampness, the cold.

“Sorry,” she says, her tongue thick in her mouth, “it’s okay, it’s fine.”

“I didn’t think you were gonna turn-”

“It’s fine.”

“Kie?” a voice demands, and she thinks her whole body hums in response. JJ stops near them – glances between the guy and Kiara.

“I just knocked into her – I’m sorry,” the guy keeps babbling.

“Kie?” JJ says again, and it might be because she’s standing there pretty vacantly, just glad that he’s there, he’s near her, he’s not ignoring her any more.

“I mixed,” she tells him, and her head tilts back as nausea rises in her throat. “Fucking mixing.”

She distantly hears JJ saying, “dude, just watch where you’re going,” and then the guy’s retreating, still apologising.

It leaves JJ and Kiara standing on the sand.

“You always barf when you mix,” JJ points out. Kiara sighs mournfully.

“I know. Have you got any mints?”

“Nope. I do have a knife though.”

Kiara sighs again. She wants him to put his arm around her shoulders. Wants to be held. But he’s still tense and still.

“I wish you wouldn’t see your dad,” she tells him, and wraps her arms around herself in a vain attempt to feel soothed.

“He’s my dad, Kie. He’s family.”

“We’re your family too.”

His eyes are pinned to her. “Yeah,” he agrees eventually.

“Come sit with us? If you hate it, you can go and mack on a Touron. I promise.” She nods sagely. “Girl Scout honour.”

“You were never a Girl Scout.”

“Authority issues,” she informs him grandly, and he’s finally smiling smally, despite himself.

“You and me both, babe. C’mon then. Where’s the _family_?” he puts a sarcastic emphasis on it but she thinks he may mean it.

They’re still sitting around the same fire, but Sarah has her head on John B’s shoulder. They look up at their approach – Kiara making her unsteady way over, JJ trailing behind. Kiara drops to the floor next to Pope’s legs, looks up at JJ.

“Long time no see,” John B snipes, but Kiara thinks it’s mostly friendly.

JJ ignores him. “Kie’s wasted.”

“Crossfaded,” Kiara corrects, and she wishes he’d sit down so she can try and manipulate his hand into her hair.

JJ sinks onto the driftwood next to Pope. Kicks at her feet and drags them out the way of the fire when she drifts too close. A joint comes around and Kiara takes it gratefully – JJ takes it from her almost immediately. She presses her chin into his knee and pouts at him.

It breaks the touch barrier, and she’s then got her arms hooked over his knees. Got her cheek pressed to his thigh. Wiggles so he has a knee either side of her shoulders, her head back against his stomach. She can feel him looking at the back of her head, a plastic cup in his hands. Finally, finally, he pulls at one of her curls, whilst he’s talking to Pope about Frank, the head and neck cadaver dissection he was doing before summer break.

“Is she asleep?” John B asks in amusement some time later. Kiara has her cheek pillowed on JJ’s leg, his hand tugging at all the escaped curls. There’s a sweatshirt folded around her shoulders.

“No,” she mutters defiantly, and promptly closes her eyes again.

They have to walk back because Pope refuses to drive, but refuses to let anyone else get behind the wheel. He runs along the beach with the keys when JJ tries to wrestle them from him.

“I’m sober,” JJ protests, ducking around Pope’s body to reach his pockets.

“Bullshit. I saw you drinking at least four beers and you hogged that joint.”

It’s a familiar route. Down the beach, then cutting through downtown. Her head spins and she has to take deep breaths to try and quell the nausea.

Her and Sarah start giggling at a graffitied sign, leaning on each other.

“You’re so pretty,” Sarah tells her, her hand soft on Kiara’s face. “So pretty.”

“You’re the most beautiful girl alive,” Kiara tells her reverently.

“I had a crush on you,” Sarah whispers. “You turned me, Kiara Carrera.”

“But you turned me!” Kiara gasps. Stops short and adds thoughtfully, “well, you and Keira Knightley.”

“Well, obviously,” Sarah is serious. Close and gentle and very pretty. “Keira could turn anyone. Keira and Kiara. The dream team.”

“Well this is getting cosy,” John B pulls his girlfriend by her shoulders, looking between them. “Let’s agree that you’re both strong, independent women.”

“Damn, JB, that was just getting interesting,” JJ complains.

“Am I still independent if I can’t sleep alone?” Kiara muses out loud, and she slouches into Pope’s side because her body is very heavy and JJ doesn’t seem to be in a cuddly mood.

Pope shoots her a look. Then looks at JJ.

There’s a lot of complaining at the Chateau. Lots of “how did I become the sensible one,” from JJ as he fetches glasses or mugs or any clean-ish container of water. Lots of complaining from John B as he struggles to convert the couch into the pullout. More complaining as he finds Sarah and Kiara in his bed, their faces to the pillows.

“Not happening,” he determines, and he pulls at Kiara’s arm.

Kiara sighs as she places her feet on the ground, pushes up to standing. “You’re so rude,” she tells him on the way out. “And you call yourself a feminist!”

Instead she slouches onto the pullout between Pope and JJ who are coaxing the ancient Wii into playing Mario Kart. JJ doesn’t shift away when she lies on her stomach next to him, her hip pressing into his.

The munchies really kick in with a vengeance. She complains enough that JJ pauses the game and stalks to the kitchen, muttering under his breath. Comes back with a sandwich on a plate.

Kiara takes a bite, frowns as she hits something hard. The boys have resumed the game but Pope glances as she spits out something onto the plate.

“Is that… a peanut?” Kiara pokes at the object suspiciously.

“We didn’t have any peanut butter,” JJ says patiently.

“So you just used peanuts? Whole peanuts?”

“Yeah. It’s peanut and jelly.”

It’s also the funniest thing she’s ever heard. Kiara shakes the pullout with her giggling, her head bowing over the plate. JJ looks thoroughly offended.

“Well, that’s the last time I do anything nice for you,” he complains. Kiara tries to sober up, takes another bite of the sandwich. Gets another peanut. Snorts with laughter.

Pope says, “Jesus Christ,” when she’s still chuckling to herself two minutes later, tears in her eyes, the sandwich clutched in her hands. JJ eventually peels apart the slices of bread and removes the peanuts. Him and Pope eat them off the plate, reaching for them without even looking.

“Someone stroke my hair,” Kiara demands eventually. Pope pats her head unconvincingly. JJ pulls at a single curl, but he’s hooked his ankle over hers and his foot moves up and down her calf. She’s out like a light within seconds, the plate still in one hand.

It’s Pope who nudges her awake. “Kie. I can’t concentrate with your snoring.”

“Oh, my God.” They all watch as Princess Peach divebombs off the rainbow bridge in a blaze of glory. “That wasn’t my snoring,” she points out. JJ snorts. Fishes for another jelly covered peanut.

She falls asleep and is rudely awoken once more before admitting defeat. Pulls herself to her knees and climbs over JJ. She might pause and koala his back for a minute, her chin on his spine. “You coming?” she asks him quietly. Although perhaps not as quietly as she thinks, because Pope looks at them.

JJ hums noncommittally and Kiara sighs, heaves herself from the pullout. She thinks she hears Pope mutter, “bro,” quietly as she retrieves her phone from the floor and wanders to the bathroom. Uses her finger to brush her teeth in the absence of a toothbrush. Although it ends up being more just chewing on some toothpaste and it doesn’t work particularly well.

Kiara collapses into the bed that smells like JJ. On the side closest to the wall, because he doesn’t like feeling trapped.

The door opens slowly half an hour later. “Thank God,” Kiara sighs from the bed. “I’m cold. And you’re a radiator.”

But JJ closes the door and leans against it. “What the fuck are we doing, Kie?”

“Trying to sleep. C’mere,” she commands in a mumble.

He sits on the edge of the bed and Kiara pulls at his shoulders, pulls at the back of his shirt to manoeuvre him towards her. Impossibly slowly he unlaces his boots, swings his legs into the bed.

“Dude, it’s all sandy in here,” he complains, and he’s sitting up and brushing at the sheets in vain.

“Oh my God, you’re such a princess.”

“It’s scratchy! I have sensitive skin!”

JJ finally faces her, her eyes adjusting to the low lighting. She can just about see the whites of his eyes and his blonde hair.

“Did you kiss her?”

“Who?”

“That blonde girl?”

JJ exhales through his nose. “I did not.”

“Did you want to?”

“You’ve kinda ruined all other girls for me, Kie. So no, I didn’t really want to. I might have, if you hadn’t so rudely interrupted.”

“I only walked into some guy! I didn’t interrupt!”

“Right, so you weren’t looking for me?”

“No comment.” Kiara makes a zipping motion across her lips. “Why would you kiss her if you didn’t want to?”

“The same reason you sleep with me. Something to do.”

Kiara frowns at him. “Something to do?”

JJ moves a shoulder. “Warm body, convenience. Call it what you want.”

“Trust me, Maybank. You’re not convenient.” His teeth flash brightly in the dim lighting. “In fact, you’re very fucking inconvenient. Because I don’t know how to be without you and I think that means I want to be with you. Because all I want to do is wear your clothes and sleep next to you and have you looking at me in that stupid annoying way you do-”

“How can someone looking at you be annoying?”

“It just is! It’s just like… like you see me.”

“Now I’m annoying because I look at you, and I see you? What do you want me to do? Close my eyes?”

Kiara sighs at his impossibility. It’s quiet for a while, and she thinks he may be asleep. Until, “you only ever want to fuck me to comfort me, or comfort yourself.”

Kiara stares at the ceiling as she tries to decide whether that statement’s true. Decides to settle on honesty. “I want to hook up with you pretty much all the time. I just – the more it happens, the more I like you.”

“So you didn’t like me before Venice?”

“I think I’ve liked you for a while,” she admits in a small voice. “Like – liked you.”

“Oh.” Maybe if she was more sober she could appreciate the fact that JJ Maybank has run out of words. He rubs a hand over his jaw, turns his head towards her. “I’ve crushed on you since around fifth grade. Way before you got super hot.”

“Fifth grade?! This isn’t a competition, JJ.”

“If it was, I’d definitely win. That’s years and years of liking.”

“But – there’s been so many girls.”

“I mean, I never said it was exclusively you. I could have liked many people since fifth grade. Who says I haven’t liked someone since fourth grade?”

“Have you liked anyone since fourth grade?”

She thinks he’s smiling. “Nah.”

Kiara hums, gropes for his hand. Pulls it so it rests on her stomach. “If I were more sober I’d jump you right now.”

“Consent, Kie.”

“I know.”

“Just to check,” he props himself up on his other elbow, looks at her. “Do you like me? Like me, like me? As in want to ravish my innocent body and hold my hand and shit? Like that?”

Kiara wants to prefix it with _unfortunately_ but there’s something in the faint blue of his eyes that she can see. Something vulnerable. “Yes. I like, like you. Take you round the world and then to my parents for dinner like you. Please don’t sleep with anyone else like you. Please can I sleep in your bed wherever possible because it makes me calm like you.”

“Wow. That’s embarrassing.”

“Says Mr Fourth Grade!”

“Fifth grade.”

Kiara waves a hand in the air. “Potato, potato.”

“What about Pope? John B?” it’s quiet, like he’s scared of the answer.

“It’s completely different,” she reassures him. “They’re like brothers to me.”

“Oh, do you usually mack your brothers?”

“I can go mack Pope now to check,” Kiara sits up. JJ’s hands are quick to her shoulders, pull her back down. He leaves his arm there, nestled under her neck.

“No, no, I believe you. They’re brothers, I’m a sex God, I’ve got it.” His nose is on her neck now, lips ghosting across her shoulder. She’s wearing one of his t-shirts. “I hope you remember this in the morning.”

“If I don’t, you have my permission to awkwardly remind me. Also, don’t ignore me at a rager again. Not cool.”

“I was dealing with a lot of emotions, Kie,” she can feel his pout against her skin, his lower lip jutted. “I was being emotionally mature and not taking it out on you.”

“You were ghosting me!”

JJ sighs. “Momma never taught me how to healthily process my feelings.”

“Oh, my God. That’s such a low blow.” Her hands are on his face anyway, eyes running over his features. He’s grinning.

“I fight dirty, Kie.”

“Oh I fucking know.” Then, because apparently she has no filter right now, “you talk dirty as well.”

“Not heard you complaining.”

Kiara rolls her eyes, presses a yawn into his t-shirt. “Shut up now.”

“Please don’t puke on me in the night.”

He plays with her hair, wrapping a curl around his index finger, right until she falls asleep.

Her mouth tastes like ash the next morning, as it always does the day after she’s smoked. She shimmies past JJ and drinks straight from the bathroom tap like a cat. Pees, then drinks some more, and rubs some toothpaste into her gums. Rifles through the cabinet until she finds something she thinks is mouthwash, although it has no label. It’s minty when she sips it hesitantly, so she gargles with it.

JJ’s splayed across the mattress like a starfish when she slips back into the room. She has to climb over him again and the movement wakes him, his hands sliding to her hips. They hold her steady, knees framing his hips.

“You like me,” he reminds her with a sleep coated voice. He tastes like stale beer and smoke when she kisses him, lips moving against hers eagerly.

“Sucks to be me,” she sighs, then pulls off her shirt.

He pulls aside her necklaces and sucks a bruising hickey into her neck before she even notices, before she pushes his head away with a mock scowl. He’s smiling into her neck and snarking, sighing, burying a hand in her hair and pulling gently at the strands.

He fumbles for his Juul afterwards. Fills the air with mango nectar. The pen hisses as he inhales. Kiara keeps her head on his chest for a while before getting up. She throws clothes at JJ, pulls some sweats and a sweatshirt from his backpack to wear.

“C’mon,” she cajoles. “We’ve got a beach to clean.”

“I hate you.”

“Oh, babe,” it trips off her tongue without her even noticing. “We both know that’s not true.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thank you for your lovely comments and kudos and enthusiasm over these idiots. there's just one more chapter to go and then i really, truly am done. thank you!!


	13. the rest of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone suggested ends of the earth by lord huron for this chapter ([here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-MH-UmYkXiM))

*

They take JJ’s bike to the Boneyard. Kiara has to link her arms around his waist, cheek pressed between his shoulder blades. There are still the litter pickers in the van which JJ unlocks with keys he’s obtained from somewhere. It seems someone did a rudimentary job the evening before – they only fill two trash bags full of crumpled solo cups and cigarette butts. JJ undoes the tie of her bikini top twice with his metal pincers. She pushes them away, chiding, “gross, Maybank!” and then they end up squabbling, wrestling the metal between them until Kiara feints left, then right, then swipes his feet from under him so he tumbles to the soft sand.

There’s sand in her hair and up her back – she drives the van back and JJ speeds off on his bike. It makes her scowl after him, makes her want to give chase, but the van coughs in protest when she accelerates and she has to drop back down until the engine stops whining loudly.

JJ’s bike is abandoned in the driveway in a way that she thinks may be purposeful, judging by the fact he comes down from the porch to watch her trying to manoeuvre the van around it. Eventually she inches the van forwards and nudges the bike with its nose. JJ gasps and marches over as the bike tips into the dirt, but Kiara looks innocent as she jumps out and slams the door.

He’s still lamenting about her complete lack of respect when they clatter into the Chateau. Pope looks up from the couch, a plate of something which looks suspiciously like waffles balanced in one hand. JJ sniffs the air and bounds towards the kitchen. He returns with one plate and two forks – hands one to her and lets her steal bites of syrup drenched waffles.

“Sarah made them,” John B explains, and he has one in his bare hand like some sort of heathen. “She’s gone to see her sister. Pogue day?”

Kiara roots around until she finds an old cooler. Complains as JJ tries to wedge a bag of bait on top of drinks and fruit Sarah keeps buying in vain. John B and Pope are arguing loudly as they try to launch the boat – it involves a lot of swearing and grunting. Kiara cuts up a mango with a blunt knife. JJ steals a piece and smacks a kiss to her cheek in one smooth motion, retreating as she stabs at the air in retaliation.

“Go be useful,” she grouses, and although she did mean it, she’s a little sad when he traipses outside to assist.

The boat is bobbing in the water as she walks down the backyard, cooler in hand. JJ and John B are squatting on the deck of the boat, the engine exposed. She hears JJ saying, “just don’t tell Kie,” and then they’re covering up the engine and standing up in unison. Pope’s lips are pulled into an amused smile. Kiara hefts the cooler over the side of the boat, then jumps to follow it. As usual, it takes half a second to re-acclimatise to the movement of the boat; the gentle roll and rises as the water shifts them.

JJ takes the controls and John B and Pope begin a familiar conversation of the relative merits of Coke versus Pepsi. Pope brings up the inherent corruption and immorality of Coke as a corporate entity; John B refuses to accept that Pepsi is in any way a suitable replacement.

Kiara lies on the front of the boat, her shirt screwed up beneath her head. The familiar scent of weed fills the air and she cracks open an eye to slant JJ a look that is exasperated and disbelieving that he’s managed to roll whilst steering.

He’s looking at her, catches her eye. Smoke trickles from the corner of his mouth as he grins. He’s bare chested and bathed in golden light, a battered cap on his head and yellow tinted sunglasses over his eyes.

“Pope,” Kiara asks, “pass me a Pepsi?”

JJ laughs and John B reaches out, swats at her arm. Pope retrieves one from the cooler and throws it over, looking smug.

It’s not that Kiara doesn’t like Sarah. Sarah is sassy and fierce and her and John B have seemingly never left the honeymoon phase of their relationship. Just Kiara can never forget that Sarah dropped her without a word. A birthday party seems ridiculous, but it was so much at the time. To see it all playing out over social media and not even get an explanation for her sudden exclusion stung. To realise it may be because of Kiara’s newfound attraction towards girls and the apparent exclusion as a result of it hurt even harder.

It’s also just that these boys are hers. Have been, for years (apart from that one). She’s the one who’s tried to show John B how to cook, how to stretch leftovers and make dinners from the eclectic ingredients. It’s JJ who she first got high with, who pressed a hand to her shoulder and reassured her she wasn’t floating towards the sun. It’s John B she considered her best friend for years and years, who she confided in, who she had her first all consuming crush on. It’s Pope who helped her study when she fell behind at school, when chemistry threatened to overwhelm her. Pope who supports every half-thought plan with something concrete and solid, his logic unyielding.

The sun gets hotter as JJ decides they’re in the prime spot and cuts the engine. Kiara’s never been the biggest fan of fishing, but hearing the boys falling into familiar patterns of shit talking each other’s techniques and prowess makes her smile. They throw back any fish not big enough to eat quickly, before Kiara has a chance to snap at them for being cruel. 

Kiara teaches Pope how to braid, starting with the threads of a friendship bracelet. Then she lies back and shows him on the bottom strands of her hair. John B and JJ exchange stories and accolades, JJ’s Juul on his lips, a watchful eye on the lines.

“Sunscreen, boys,” Kiara commands, as she squints at a gradually pinker patch emerging on John B’s shoulders. Pope throws her the bottle from the backpack and she covers John B’s shoulders. Moves onto Pope.

“I don’t burn,” he points out dryly.

“There’s still skin cancer,” Kiara persists. He frowns at her. “Hole in the ozone, Pope. Global warming. UVA and UVB. Y’know, the irreparable damage the human race has done to Mother Earth? Culminating in entirely preventable diseases such as skin cancer.”

“Oh my God,” JJ drawls. “Just do it to shut her up, dude.”

“It’s designed for darker skin,” Kiara tilts the sunscreen towards him. “You only get one skin.”

“Well, that depends on your definition of one skin. Because technically, your skins cells renew every twenty-seven days or so-”

The entire boat turns blank gazes upon Pope. He sighs. Holds out a hand for the sunscreen.

JJ’s last and he twists his shoulders away from her, complains about it. Kiara presses two fingers into his neck to keep him still; lets her nails drag over his shoulder blade just so he shoots her a look, eyebrows pulled together and the beginnings of a smirk on his face. He’s lit another joint – she takes it from between his lips and drops cross legged on the deck, handing the bottle out to him.

Pope watches as JJ abandons his line to cover her back – how she holds her hair to one side and tilts her head backwards, leaning into the touch. He snaps the band of her bikini against her skin and she knocks his shoulder with hers, leaves it leaning there for a second or two before relinquishing the joint and returning to her perch at the front.

“You’re like some figurehead or something,” Pope tells Kiara as JJ reels in a line, crowing about his catch.

“Nah, a gargoyle,” John B deflects, and he’s throwing Kiara a sideways look.

“They’re supposed to protect people from evil,” Pope informs John B idly. “They’re mostly considered good luck, or protectors.”

“I’ve got something you can protect right here, Kie,” JJ calls. Kiara pushes up her sunglasses so he can see her pointed eyeroll.

John B pulls her up to dance to some peppy music. Then she pulls up Pope, holds his hands in hers and orchestrates something that’s more than a bop. Kiara sends him spinning under her arm across the limited room on the boat, reels him back in. He’s like a gangly new born deer – all limbs and wide eyes.

The song changes – Kiara recognises the opening bars of _Pussy is God_ and turns a glare on JJ, who looks back in challenge.

She pulls him up then, fingers around his wrist, but he’s already half risen to meet her in the middle. Pope flops down next to his line looking relieved.

JJ shimmies his shoulders and hips with her – even gets on the deck in some semblance of a twerk, which makes her belly laugh. Grabs her hands and pulls her around in a loose bastardisation of a waltz – jerks at her arms when she trips over one of the lines and almost falls into a bait bucket. It’s unskilled and it shouldn’t work, but he has the familiar easy confidence and she likes him being close, likes the excuse to have her hand in his.

The song ends and they’re facing each other, shoulders heaving with deep breaths. JJ grins sharply as she drops his hands and she can’t help but smile back. Pushes at his shoulders so she can get past. He barely steps to the side.

Pope and John B are watching them.

“Are you guys together?” Pope asks bluntly. JJ’s next to her and Kiara doesn’t look, but she can almost feel him going still and tense; the air heavy with the sudden tension.

It’s silent for a long moment. JJ eventually mutters, “dude,” but it’s quiet and unsubstantiated.

“Yeah,” Kiara says. Her chin juts out. JJ’s head turns quickly towards her, his brow pulled into a frown. She looks back steadily, assured, chin high.

“Gross,” he complains, but he’s ducking his head down to hide a smile that is utterly blinding in its brilliance, wide and consuming. Kiara thinks that she’d like to bottle that look. Keep it on her bedside table forever. 

“Fuck sake,” John B complains. “I owe Sarah. She called it.”

“I called it,” Pope protests. “Seriously. Going around the world together? JJ would follow you into Hell.”

“He’d probably follow any of us,” Kiara points out, and it’s a relief now, to sink to the floor next to where JJ’s taken residence and put her legs across his. His hand rests on her calves as though it’s second nature; he rubs a callused thumb against her ankle bone.

“True,” JJ agrees. “Though Kie looks the best from behind.”

Kiara sighs. John B scoffs. “I’ve been smashing the squats, actually-”

“Oh yeah? Fucking try me-”

Kiara’s legs are dislodged as JJ leaps up to the challenge.

Pope meets her gaze across the deck. “Congratulations.” They both watch as the squats become increasingly dubious. “Your boyfriend’s an idiot.”

The word falters in the air, twists. She sees JJ throwing a glance her way because of course he’s heard.

“The biggest,” she concurs. Tilts her head back to the sun, smiling faintly as John B and JJ start squabbling and critiquing each other’s form.

The hammock swings gently, later on; Kiara stretched out like a cat on the fabric. Pope and John B are constructing some sort of fire to grill the fish they’ve caught. They bicker about the most efficient way to stack the wood and light it.

The world tilts on its axis as JJ clambers into the hammock. It sways precariously before righting itself, swinging between the trees. Their collective weight means they’re pressed together; his ankles into her shoulders, his calves to her arm. Kiara loops an arm over his legs. Pushes her fingertips under the hem of his shorts to rest lightly on his thigh.

“Boyfriend, huh?”

He uncaps a bottle with his teeth and she gives him a look at the action. He’s not looking at her – he’s focussed on the bottles in his hands.

“Any other term you’d prefer?” There’s panic in her throat and chest but she tries to quash it. Tries to keep her voice steady. “Other half? Partner in crime? Significant other? Bro’s with benefits?”

“Boyfriend’s good,” he hands her a bottle, the condensation on the glass cool against her palm. “I wish I could go back to middle school JJ and tell him that it’s Kiara Carrera who’s begging him to be in a relationship. Mini JJ would lose his shit.”

Kiara scoffs. “I am not begging-”

“Oh really? Not how I’m seeing it-”

“So do you not want to? ‘cause I can take it back-”

He flicks at her ankle, leaves his hand there. It’s warm and soothing. She’s wearing one of his t-shirts and it has some oil stain right up the side. “I suppose it’s fine,” he sighs eventually. And although he has sunglasses on and has his head tilted back, she knows he’s watching her.

“How gracious of you,” she mutters.

Kiara tries not to overthink this new development. Mostly because nothing significant changes immediately. She’s slightly less conscious of being around JJ, stops feeling like she has to hide the way she leans into his side or the way his hands go to her hair and plait tiny braids out of habit. The way the fridge is stocked with full sugar coke’s and he knows precisely when to pull one out with a knowing look. It’s both of their first relationships which makes her panic if she thinks about it too much – there just feels like there should be some trial run before this, before falling into something with her best friend.

They grill the fish an hour later once the fire’s sufficiently hot. Kiara makes them grill asparagus as well, and then bullies them into eating mango for dessert. JJ tosses pieces into Pope’s open mouth, John B whoops every time he lands a shot. Kiara smokes too much of one of JJ’s superpowered joints and falls asleep on the couch on the porch. She wakes up with a blanket over her and a pillow half wedged under her head.

JJ’s in the kitchen when she stumbles up, elbow deep in a sink of soapy water. Kiara collapses against his back, her arms around his waist. The rest of the house is quiet, still – Pope’s snoring on the pullout, hands behind his head.

“Bedtime,” she announces into his shirt. JJ abandons the dishes to climb in next to her. They link hands (because it’s too hot for anything more) and she falls asleep almost immediately.

There are two missed calls from her dad when she wakes up, and then a text asking whether she’d mind picking up a shift at The Wreck. Kiara tries not to wake JJ as she climbs out of bed but he’s still an unnaturally light sleeper. One hand drags lightly over her hip as she escapes. He appraises her sleepily, eyes squinted. They darken as she pulls on a pair of his boxers in the absence of any clean underwear.

“Do some laundry,” she commands.

“Where you going?”

“The Wreck. Dad’s asked.” She has her phone in her back pocket and stops in the middle of the room. Something seems awry, or awkward, like she’s too big and too small all at once. JJ watches as she marches across the room, as she braces one hand next to his head and drops a kiss to his lips. It’s quick, snatched – although his hand goes to her hair, traps her there.

“Give me five minutes,” his voice is husk with sleep and something else. “That’s all I need.” Kiara grins quickly, pulls away. He lets her go. “Fine. Three minutes. Two and a half, maybe.”

“A minute, more like.”

“You devastate me, Carrera. Besides, what’s a few minutes between friends?”

She takes his bike and rides fast to The Wreck. There’s some external convention going on that they’re also catering for – the kitchen is a mess of shrink-wrapped sandwiches and platters. Her dad pauses for half a second to acknowledge her presence before loading her up with platters to take to the truck.

The day passes quickly – she drives the food across to the five-year old’s birthday party over on Figure Eight and then busses tables and helps in the kitchen right up until close. Her dad pulls two Coors’ from the fridge beneath the counter and hands her one. There are clatters from the kitchen as the staff tidy up from the day. Mike circulates amongst them, handing out beers and debriefing the day.

“I’m getting too old for this,” he laments as he joins Kiara on the front step.

“You love it,” Kiara accuses. “Gives you that sense of importance. Besides, black don’t crack.”

“Reckon you’ll ever want to take it over?”

Kiara has thought about it. It wouldn’t be a bad life, a bad living. She enjoys cooking and adores The Wreck. “I don’t know. Maybe. I love it here, but I don’t know if it’s my calling. Perhaps I’ll just be a benevolent owner and get in a stellar manager. That could work.”

“I suppose it’s hard to run this place from another country,” she can sense her dad looking at her from the corner of his eye, judging her reaction.

Kiara shrugs. “I have no idea where I’ll end up. It could be here.”

“One day the decision will be easy. You’ll look around and realise where you want to call home.” He runs a thumb over the label on the bottle. “Where’s next, anyway?”

“India.” Kiara touches her tongue to her top lip. Stretches out her legs. “In two and a half weeks.”

“JJ going with you?”

“Maybe. Not sure yet.” Maybe it’s the uncertainty which is throwing her mental balance off. They both know she’s leaving again, and soon. But he’s been so happy and contented and Kiara doesn’t want to be the reason for bursting that bubble.

“I feel better that’s he’s with you,” Mike holds up a placating hand as Kiara turns a vicious scowl on him. “I know you can handle yourself – I know. It’s not just for safety reasons. Travelling the world alone would be so lonely. He’s – he’s not what I expected.” Kiara looks at him questioningly. He shrugs. “We’ve all heard about the Maybank’s. It’s no secret he was picked up for sinking the Thornton’s boat.”

“That’s only because they jumped Pope-” Kiara defends.

“-but after everything, after the gold and Sarah and John B going missing. After it all. He’s straightened himself out. And he makes you happy. So that’s good enough for me. Good enough for your mom.”

“Ah, male validation. Precisely what every woman needs.”

Her dad smiles at her. Puts an arm around her shoulder. “You know what I mean.” He touches a hand to her hair, holds her to his side. “Bring him round for dinner.”

“What, for an Anna Carrera inquisition? I’m good, thanks.”

“I can promise best behaviour.”

“You can promise no such thing.”

“I can promise I’ll be on my best behaviour.”

“It’s not your behaviour that’s the concern.”

“Fine, we’ll do a cookout. Invite them all. The parasites.”

Kiara grins at him. “May as well break him in gently, see if he sticks around.”

“He’d be a fool not to.”

Anna emerges from the house as Kiara parks on the driveway. She’s frowning at the bike. “I don’t trust that thing,” she tells Kiara, then pulls her into a brief hug once she’s dismounted.

“Trust me, it’s a hundred times better than the ones in Vietnam.”

“I don’t want to know,” Anna protests. Her arm’s still around Kiara’s shoulders and she guides her inside. “The less I know, the better.”

They make mocktails with fancy juices and sit in the back yard before Kiara’s bullied into cooking dinner. There are Thai spices and lemongrass in the cupboard – ingredients she’d mentioned to her dad. He leans against the counter and watches as she prepares a Thai green curry mostly from memory.

Her mom falters slightly at the suggestion of a cookout, but then warms to the idea. Checks her Outlook calendar and proposes two days’ time so she has a free afternoon to prepare.

Kiara posts it in _The Pogues (plus Sarah)_.

 **John B [7:54]:** Omg meeting the parents that’s some serious shit

 **Sarah [7:54]:** we’re free!!!

 **JJ [7:55]:** do i have to wear a shirt

 **Sarah [7:56]:** yes

 **Pope [7:56]:** Yes.

 **Kiara [7:57]:** And shoes

 **JJ [7:58]:** fucking kooks

Two days later, Kiara swings by the Chateau in her dad’s SUV after a shift at The Wreck to pick them up. Sarah, John B and Pope are pregaming on the porch. Pope rushes to hide his bottle when he catches sight of her, his eyes wide.

“Kie!” John B greets as she appears in the doorway. “We’re not pregaming because your parents are intimidating. Definitely not.”

“Really convincing,” Kiara tells him, but she’s glancing around. “Thank you for soothing any nerves I may have about this occasion.”

“JJ’s changing,” Pope informs her. “He’s changed his shirt like a hundred times already.”

“Dude,” the aforementioned blonde approaches, barefoot, buttoning up a navy button down. “Be cool.”

“She already knows you’re not cool,” Pope dismisses.

JJ bumps his hip into Kiara’s, musses her hair. “Good shift?”

“Long.” He retreats to the kitchen and Kiara follows; watches as he opens the fridge. Hidden from everyone else, he kisses her chastely, bottle in one hand. Kiara pulls him back towards her.

“You stink of fries.” Kiara moves to pull away but he traps her with an arm around her waist. “Nah, it’s good.” His teeth graze her neck and this time she does push him away. Keeps her hand on his chest as she surveys his outfit.

“A shirt? They’ll be honoured.”

JJ’s gaze slides away. He bites his lip briefly. “A shirt’s not going to change much.”

It’s well worn ground from the past two days. “Just relax, don’t blaze up, and don’t get so drunk you puke. You’re good.” He meets her steady gaze eventually. “They know who you are, babe. No need to pretend to be anyone else. Don’t go weird on me.”

“Weird’s Pope’s niche,” his shoulders relax marginally. “I’m cool. Your mom’s hot, so I’ll just charm her.”

“You charm no one, Maybank. Let’s not pretend.”

“Charmed you, didn’t I?”

“It’s more like Stockholm Syndrome.” Kiara presses a kiss to his cheek, steps back. “I’m gonna go grab a shower. Get everyone ready to leave in fifteen?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, mom,” he dismisses as he leaves the room. He pauses at the doorway, shoots a look over his shoulder before disappearing.

There’s a miniature bottle of her favoured shampoo and conditioner in the limescale crusted shower. Kiara smiles at the sight of it. Roots through the myriad of clothes on the floor for a clean shirt. There’s a bralette she abandoned the other day – she pulls one of the t-shirts JJ’s slashed into a tank top on over the top. Tucks it into denim shorts and pulls her damp hair into a braid and a bandana on her head. There’s a bottle of cocoa butter moisturiser on the side.

JJ’s nervous energy personified – beer spills from the bottle in his hand as he waves his arms in animation. John B laughs at whatever tale he’s re-enacting, his arm firmly around Sarah’s waist. Kiara announces her presence with a jangle of keys, waits for the story to finish.

“Everyone ready?”

JJ twists the ring on his thumb in the car. Chews at the bands around his wrists. John B, Pope and Sarah all pile out as they roll to a stop on her driveway. JJ stares at the house, his shoulders square, set.

“JJ,” Kiara says, mostly to pull him out of his head. “It’s fine.” She curls a hand over his knee, smiles reassuringly. “You did a whole week with them at Christmas.”

His breath gusts out sharply. “This is different. We’re different. It’s weird.” His knee moves under her palm. “I don’t wanna fuck this up,” he admits eventually, quietly.

“You’re good. We’re good.” John B raps on the window with his knuckles sharply. Gestures towards the house. “Come on.”

JJ keeps a careful distance from her for the first hour. Accepts a beer with a flash of teeth that could be a smile or a threat and clutches the neck of the bottle tightly. Kiara exchanges a look with Pope who then takes up residence at JJ’s side. Draws him into a conversation with her dad about fishing or something.

Anna says, “Sarah, you look lovely!” and Sarah does – a red sundress and bare legs. Anna shoots a look at Kiara’s outfit. Plucks at the torn tank with a _tsk_. “You could have at least tried to look like you've made some effort, Kiara.”

John B is his usual charming self. Sarah bounces well off him, asking Anna about work and analysing the country club charity event. Kiara drifts between the two segments until Sarah pulls her down into a chair next to her, claiming her wandering is making her nauseous. Her back’s to JJ but she can hear his voice occasionally. Can hear him slowly unwinding.

Her mom ropes her into retrieving the food for the grill from the kitchen. They’re pulling bowls and plates from the fridge when her mom says casually, “you and JJ are together, right?”

Kiara fumbles with the plate in her hand. Grips it tighter. “Yeah,” she confirms. “It’s really new though, so…”

Her mom’s face is inscrutable. She looks considering. Resigned, maybe. “He hasn’t stopped looking at you.”

It makes her shy. Makes her eyes drop to the plate. “I like him, mom.”

Anna smiles then. “I know, honey. Just – be careful.”

Kiara carries the plates of meat to the grill where Pope, JJ and her dad are still gathered. Pope’s recalling some weird factoid about how pork’s the most similar in composition to humans. Her dad looks spooked but as though he’s trying not to show it. JJ’s hiding a smirk behind his bottle. Looks to her as she places the plates next to the grill.

“I tried to stop the burning human conversation,” he mutters to her. Kiara leans against him, arm to arm.

“Liar,” she accuses.

His lips quirk slightly before he takes another sip of his beer.

“Kiara!” Sarah calls. “Come make a cocktail!”

“Oh, JJ makes a mean cocktail,” John B trails out the house holding bowls. Places them on the table.

All eyes turn to JJ. He glances at Kiara. Shrugs a shoulder. “They’re alright.”

“Alright?” John B hoots. “So many people would only let him make theirs,” he informs Anna. “He was the best at – what was that one? Lemon and sh- stuff-”

“Lemondrop,” JJ supplies, but he’s narrowed his eyes at his friends as though trying to determine his ulterior motive.

“Them! Honestly, Anna, they are God’s gift to Earth.”

Which is how Kiara is treated to the sight of JJ shaking up cocktails with a cocktail shaker her dad pulls from a cupboard and rinses free of dust. His arms flex as he shakes them over his shoulder – he even goes a step further and requests sugar so he can dust the rim of the glasses. Bounces a lemon off his elbow just to show off.

It’s sweet and sour and laced with hard liquor. “You’ve been holding out on me,” Kiara complains to him.

JJ glances around briefly to check they don’t have an audience. Slings an arm around her neck and presses a brief kiss to her temple. “I definitely don’t hold out on you, Kiara Carrera.”

Kiara groans at the insinuation, swats his shoulder. “Kindly tell your mind to climb out the gutter.”

“Can’t help where I was born, bro.”

“Bro?”

“Bro,” he nods solemnly. There’s a pause and Kiara drops her head to his shoulder. His shirt smells like mango Juul. “Your mom said something about India,” he starts.

It’s not how she imagined this conversation going. Not in the corner of her backyard, a lemondrop cocktail in one hand and her parents frowning at food on the grill.

“I’ve booked two flights, just in case,” she says quickly, and she raises her free hand to rest it on the arm around her shoulders. “I just – you seem so happy here – I don’t want to assume that-”

“It’s cool,” he cuts her off. “I might join you.”

It’s deceptively casual, pointedly uncommitted. Kiara says, “cool,” and tries not to beam too widely about it. Fails, judging by the way her mom is looking at them across the yard. JJ drops his arm from her shoulders as though the look’s burned him. Runs a hand through his hair. Kiara rolls her eyes at him, presses a kiss to his cheek.

Mike’s gone all out with the food – there are three different types of salad, one with grapefruit and avocado and raspberries, grilled lobster and asparagus wrapped in parma ham and fresh fish. Anna only makes two comments about eating salad and vegetables. Looks like she bites back a couple more.

After they’ve eaten Anna drags JJ inside, demanding he shakes up another cocktail. Kiara is trapped in her seat between Sarah and Pope. She still cranes her head to keep an eye on proceedings – Anna is handing JJ liquor and looks like she’s conducting an inquisition. JJ’s back is to the double doors but his shoulders are tense.

Eventually her anxiety gets the better of her and she goes into the kitchen. Catches JJ saying, “yes, ma’am,” to her mom, which makes Kiara feel strange because of this newfound meek JJ.

“I hope you’re playing nice,” Kiara isn’t precisely sure who she’s speaking to. Judging by the way they both look at her innocently, neither do they.

“Just talking about your tattoos,” her mom explains quickly. JJ’s is stark on his forearm. There are flashes of Kiara’s as the tank top shifts with her movements. When they’re in bed, JJ likes to lay his forearm along her ribs so it looks like the dolphin’s in the sea.

“It was a reputable place,” Kiara begins defending. Anna laughs, cups her cheek.

“I was just saying, they kind of match. A bit like you two do.”

Kiara can feel the flush starting on her neck. Can see JJ’s brow furrowing, unused to any inference of intimacy or anything more.

“Mom,” she complains. Anna drops her hand to pat her shoulder on the way past, lemondrop clutched in her other one. “Sorry,” she apologises as Anna disappears out the double doors. “She’s a lot.”

JJ shrugs a shoulder. He’s still got the cocktail shaker in his hands. Keeps twisting the lid on and off. “She really loves you.”

“I’m the best thing in her life. Of course she does.”

JJ scrunches his nose. “Loving the confidence. You do you, babe.”

As promised, John B corners her about JJ. It’s an awkward and disjointed conversation. John B continually expresses his surprise at the match. Even says _kinda thought you were into me_ and it’s enough to make Kiara hit at his shoulder, push his face away. So what if she thought she had been, once upon a time?

“It’s ‘cause you’re shit at macking,” she tells him, and they’re heading back to the Chateau and in earshot of Pope and JJ on the porch.

“Oh shit!” Pope grins, makes some weird gesture with his hands which she thinks is a bow and arrow. “She’s shot you down there. Hook, line, sinker.”

“She has also macked you,” John B points out. He swats at JJ’s legs where they’re leaning on the railings, stretched across the expanse of the porch. JJ doesn’t move them. John B sits on them until they tremble and JJ gives in.

“Pope was passable,” Kiara judges. She collapses onto the couch next to JJ, presses her shoulder into his side. He presses a kiss to her hair idly, brings his arm around her so he can keep rolling the joint on his knee.

“But I’m obviously the best,” JJ surmises. “I’m the only one that’s stuck.”

“So far,” Kiara reminds him, and she smiles sweetly at the look he gives her.

This time, she trusts him to pack his own backpack. Pope texts her the things he’s including. Pope also send links to horror stories from tourists about India. He’s aghast that they’re not considering signing up to any tour provider, despite JJ informing him that Kiara wanted to experience some _goddamn culture, Pope, not that you’d understand._

Her parents drive them to the airport and she gets an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. JJ agrees with her. His foot is tapping against the side of the car but he even speaks to her parents in the overly polite way she’s still getting used to. Plays rock, paper, scissors when she gets bored and demands he does. He catches her fist when she wins with rock and tries to knock his hand out of contention.

Their first flight leaves at 2am, so they reach the airport at midnight. It takes a whole twenty-six hours, four separate flights and three airports to reach Mumbai. The border control agents are solemn and unmoving; examine their passports with vigour and disdain.

They get an Uber from the airport which Kiara usually tries to avoid. She calculates she’s had approximately ten hours sleep in the past two days, and JJ’s even worse at sleeping on public transport. He slumps into the Uber like his bones fail to hold him upright.

The first thing that stands out is the traffic. The roads are crammed full of bikes, of rickshaws with flashing lights and boom boxes blaring music; of Uber’s. Horns blare all over. It begins raining whilst they’re halfway to their hostel – big, fat raindrops that thrum onto the roof of the Uber and bounce off the road’s surface. The driver turns up the music he has playing, drums his thumbs into the steering wheel. He’s wearing linen pants and shirt. Keeps shooting JJ looks in the rear-view mirror.

The host is unfailingly polite. Rushes out into the monsoon to assist with their bags, drenched through to the skin. Says, “no, no,” in protest when JJ tries to help by pulling his out the trunk.

India is loud and brash and so unlike anything she has ever experienced. There are power chords twisting between buildings – dozen upon dozen from each power lines. Some are exposed to the elements and the power tends to blind on and off during monsoons. Kiara gets distracted on every street by elaborate temples and buildings. It becomes second nature to slip their shoes off in museums or places of worship.

Mumbai never sleeps – the roads are constantly rammed with vehicles. They see the Koli Fisherman community who have their own language deviations and entire culture – JJ likens them to the locals of the Cut, which makes Kiara shoot him a dismissive look. She doesn’t think the Cut would gather together and play music and dance. He defends them. Cocks his head, eyes sharp in defence.

The food is a blend of spices and fresh flavours. Kiara’s better at heat than JJ – she samples everything they buy before he tries it himself. He mutters about having a sensitive palette and pouts when she mocks him.

They get around the city by trains known as the local trains. They apparently carry over seven million commuters a day; Kiara thinks most of them are on her carriage as she ends up wedged in a corner. They have to battle to get on or off – for the most part the crowds open up around them as obvious tourists. Kiara stops taking pictures of every single temple because they’re likely to turn the corner and discover an ever more elaborate one.

It becomes natural to eat with their hands and use squat toilets. Phone reception is variable. JJ starts downloading maps of the area to use offline. They visit the Sanjay Gandhi National Park and follow a so called naturalist, a tour guide who leads them on a hike of the trails. JJ bounds all day long, peppering their guide with questions. Kiara’s calves ache around hour five. They have to drive to caves and JJ’s thumbs dig into her calves as he glances at her, still talking avidly to their guide.

It’s humid and the air is sticky like treacle. More often than not her shirt sticks to her back with sweat. She buys cotton pants and shirts to try and shade herself, copying the locals. JJ’s accustomed to it, accustomed to the looks they attract in the street; so obviously Western tourists. Some locals approach and it’s hard to disengage from them, hard to look past the more blatant poverty and wealth divide. JJ struggles with the homeless and the beggars who approach, hands cupped and eyes averted.

JJ presses coins into their palms and Kiara tells him they’re told not to, to prevent trouble. The hotel owner has regaled them with tales of how the homeless are usually in gangs and have to give up their daily earnings to the mobsters above them.

JJ shrugs when she points this out. “They might spend it on food, they might give it to their boss. It’ll help them out either way.”

“It’s just perpetuating the cycle of abuse.”

“If you ignore people, they don’t just go away. Maybe the gang’s protection is better than nothing.”

It’s enough to make Kiara feel sharply ashamed of herself. Something in JJ’s jaw ticks when he sees injuries on people – when they’re alone, Kiara presses her thumb to where the skin jumps when he’s holding something back.

They get used to carrying bottle of water everywhere. To checking the seals on freshly purchased bottles. The waste annoys Kiara, but after a close call with some potentially contaminated water and having to spend a solid twenty four hours in the immediate vicinity of the toilet, she accepts it as the lesser of two evils.

The train station is confusing to navigate. Kiara squints at the writing and JJ comments something about this is how he feels all the time when she complains she can’t understand the signs.

She thinks they’re on the right train. There’s a basket with a chicken inside it between the man sat next to them’s legs. A woman runs down the platform, offering Styrofoam cups of chai through the open windows in exchange for a few rupees.

JJ sticks his head out of the train window like a dog, his hair streaming in the breeze. Kiara takes a quick picture before pulling him back inside, chiding him about the obvious dangers. There aren’t neon signs announcing stops – they’re lucky if they have a metal sign. The dialects vary all around India, making comprehension even harder.

There are cows on all the streets in Delhi. They’re revered as sacred animals by Hindus. Cars veer around them if they amble into the roads. Food is served on banana tree leaves which are then tossed into the street as cow fodder.

They stand in front of the Taj Mahal and JJ informs her he’s never going to build anything like that for her.

“Aw,” she coos, “don’t you love me enough?”

It’s a joke, teasing, but his gaze slides away from her and he shifts away too. “Definitely not,” he deflects easily.

“She was his third wife and she was an amazing chess player and strategist. Died giving birth to their fourteenth child.” Kiara tilts her head, struggles to comprehend the scale of the palace before them. The white marble’s warm beneath her bare feet. “Imagine what she could have achieved if she hadn’t been constantly pregnant. If she hadn’t just been some baby machine.”

“She got a really cool building out of it, though.”

“Probably would have appreciated it more if she’d been alive to see it.”

They have to get rupees from specific conversion booths that definitely overcharge them with the conversion rate. JJ’s card gets declined twice and he’s distant as he tells her. Kiara can’t really understand why – they spend a similar amount, roughly split all expenses down the middle.

She frets that maybe he’s been scammed, had fraud carried out on his card. He has a banking app and she scrolls through the recent transactions.

There are regular monthly payments to L MAYBANK which makes her stomach clench but she swipes over them. Besides that, there are recent payments to something she has to Google. It’s a charity which deals specifically with the homeless in Mumbai.

Kiara tells him about the transactions, checks it’s him who’s made them. He twists the ring on his thumb and shrugs, looks into the middle distance.

Her throat closes and she thinks she will never stop being surprised by JJ Maybank. “We have a charity fund,” she reminds him. “We can ask Sarah and make regular donations.”

He takes his phone back off her and locks it. Kiara’s arms band around his waist and pull him close, chin on his shoulder. “We love you,” she tells him. Swipes a hand down his spine. “Just let Sarah know which charity you want.”

The hostels they stay in are more people’s homes with spare rooms. At one, there’s a dance rehearsal taking place in the living room. Their host spots them slinking past, drags them in by their hands despite their weak protests. The dancing is energetic, all consuming – a lot of wrist and hand actions matched with complicated steps. They’re walked through the opening steps carefully, the music starting and re-starting until they have them nailed. A monsoon starts outside, pounding against the windows. Being white, blonde haired and blue eyed, JJ always attracts more attention. Indian women crowd him, press their hands to straighten his wrist or lift his arm higher.

Kiara is considered proficient first – their host cheers and claps her hands as she nails the opening sequence. She meets JJ’s gaze and grins at his wrinkled nose, his groan as the music starts once more.

“This is the worst,” he complains as they’re allowed to stop for water.

“You love it.”

He’s looking at her, then past her, where the gaggle of women are drinking water and eating slices of fruit. “Something like that.”

India’s hot and strips their bodies of any form of hydration. They’re targeted in markets or crowded areas. JJ takes up permanent residence behind her, eyes sharp on the people flanking them. A guy tries to slip Kiara’s bag off her shoulder and JJ slams towards him, a whirlwind of fury and anger. Kiara snatches his hand up and pulls him out of the crowd; pushes him against a wall. His shoulders are trembling and he has the awful blank look on his face, his jaw tense.

“You need to get your shit together,” she tells him in a low voice. “I am not a babysitter for when you can’t exercise control.” He still hasn’t looked at her and that annoys Kiara. Makes her place a gentle hand on his chin, tip his face towards her. His gaze is hard and unforgiving. “I’m not fucking around, JJ. You need to look at therapy or something. I’m your girlfriend, not your counsellor.”

He scoffs and shakes her off. But she sees him later on, looking up online courses. On a Thursday they have to search for reliable Wi-Fi and a quiet place. Most of the time he’s quieter afterwards. Kiara keeps a careful distance until he leans into her or curls an arm around her shoulders or waist.

“Is it helping?” she asks after the third Thursday. It’s raining heavily outside, the power blinking on and off. Somehow the TV keeps working. They’ve hopped through tens of channels and come across _Mean Girls_ with Indian subtitles. The familiarity makes her homesick.

The ceiling fan has sputtered to a stop. Sweat collects across the back of her neck and on her forehead. JJ drags a hand across her spine.

“Kind of,” he says eventually. “Lot of work to do, apparently.”

Kiara’s lips twitch. “Well, you don’t have to be a qualified therapist to appreciate that.”

There’s silence. JJ pinches the ends of her hair and rolls it between two fingers. “Do you think I’m fucked up?”

Kiara sits up, turns towards where he’s leaning against the headboard. Blinks a couple of times. “Not – not fucked up as in like, mean – but-”

“But fucked up?”

Kiara narrows her eyes. “You have coping mechanisms and defence reflexes that are understandable, but not the healthiest,” she settles on eventually.

JJ hums. “Are you sure you’re not a therapist?”

He’s relaxed enough that she knows she can climb into his lap without repercussions. “I’m definitely not a talking therapist.”

They see a lot of the same people who are also travelling around. They seem to follow the same vague trajectory. There’s a British couple called Will and Jenny who are Kiara’s favourite. Mostly because Jenny’s opening line is, “God, your boyfriend’s really fit,” which apparently means hot, and Kiara can only agree. It’s a commentary rather than anything with intent.

They end up splitting the fare for a guided tour of the Thar desert. It’s via camels, and the amount of pictures Kiara makes JJ take is beyond reasonable. The camels are lurching and not the most comfortable experience. There’s a picnic dinner under a parasol their guide produces from one of the pack camels.

“This is insane.” JJ looks around at the expanse of sand around them, formed into dunes by the wind. Two stray dogs have followed the group – their tour guide tells them not to feed them, and Kiara pretends not to notice as JJ tosses some of his _chat_ to them.

The temperature drops at night dramatically. So much so that they are bundled in jackets and a sweatshirt. JJ challenges Kiara to a handstand competition. She kicks at his legs to try and throw him off balance; ends up collapsing into the sand by overbalancing herself with the motion. JJ cackles, face flushing from the rush of blood.

Then Vihaan their guide brings out two rigid sheets of plastic and challenges them to surf down the sand dunes. Jenny and Will approach the act with trepidation, sliding down in seated position. Kiara goes on her stomach; keeps her head high so she doesn’t nosedive off. JJ’s the one to take a running start, challenged only by Vihaan who has perfected his technique from the run up to the dismount.

Kiara stomach hurts from laughing. JJ keeps going, well after Jenny and Will have collapsed into the sand. He challenges Kiara to a race, tries to use his sheet like a skateboard and overbalances, grunting as he ungracefully eats sand.

They sleep under the stars, wrapped in sleeping bags on woven mats. She jumps awake when a sand flea hops across her face.

JJ almost steps on a snake the next morning – twists away with a sharp intake of breath. Immediately holds out a hand to stop Kiara stepping forwards. Vihaan nonchalantly grabs it from the sand – a hand directly behind the head, another on the tail. Places it far from camp. Jenny and Will say it’s the first wild snake they’ve seen.

“JJ’s always bringing them in,” Kiara complains. “He’s obsessed.”

“Only the non-venomous ones.”

“Apart from that rattlesnake-“

“That was one time-”

“John B said you saw that copperhead and tried to catch it-”

“Think of the chickens, Kie!”

“You two are cute,” Jenny interjects their bickering. They’re packing up camp – rolling sleeping bags and mats into small parcels to attach to the camels. “You been together long?”

JJ’s quiet like he always is when someone addresses their relationship. “Few months,” Kie decides eventually. “Unfortunately, we’ve been friends for much, much longer.”

“Unfortunately?” JJ flicks her shoulder as he marches past. “You were blessed with my friendship.”

“Blessed?” Kiara scoffs. “I keep telling him it’s Stockholm Syndrome,” she explains.

Later on, when they’re knee to knee on their camels, JJ says, “been together months, have we?”

Kiara flicks at the tasselled reins she holds in one hand. “Probably since Thailand.”

“Oh really?”

“Do you disagree?”

“Just wanted to confirm you’re the one longing after me. Have been for _months_.”

“Oh, my God – you literally said fifth grade, dude. Nothing more embarrassing than that.”

JJ shrugs. “Just thought you were hot.”

“In fifth grade?”

“What can I say – I was an early developer.”

“You didn’t develop anything until at least like fifteen. Maybe fourteen in the right lighting.”

It takes three months to do India justice. Something about their travelling has slowed down, turned down a gear. They travel to villages and national parks. See their first wild elephants in Chandaka Elephant Sanctuary which makes Kiara want to cry. They’re sat in the top of a soft top Jeep, the roof folded down. Kiara leans against JJ instead. His hand sweeps across her neck, holds her securely.

From India they cross Nepal and into China. China is a complete cultural shift once again. The disparity between the cities and the villages and smaller towns is vast. JJ gets mobbed for pictures in the remoter areas. He ends up helping someone with a boat engine on the outskirts of Beidaihe and they get a free ride for their troubles. There are fishing murals and dedications to the sea all over the village turned cultural resort.

Kiara walks a vast stretch of the Great Wall of China in flip flops out of sheer willpower and stubbornness. It rubs her toes raw and then she complains about the wounds for days.

They celebrate Christmas in Tianjun and exchange apples printed with messages on Christmas Eve, which is apparently a new Christmas tradition. They go to McDonald’s on Christmas Day because it’s what the receptionist on their hotel reception says people do. McDonald’s is decked out in festive decorations and they can only find a table in the corner. Non-American McDonald’s still fascinate Kiara; she has a taro pie and a German Sausage Double Beef Burger, which does not correspond to any of the alleged ingredients.

JJ joins Kiara on the Facetime with her parents and she cries for twenty minutes once she hangs up. JJ holds her tightly, rubs a palm across her back. Presses feather light kisses to her eyelids.

Outside of the main cities, China is often difficult to navigate around. The symbols instead of Western lettering are confusing and due to the differing and hierarchical education system, English isn’t as widely spoken as other places.

They miss their third train through miscommunication and Kiara wants to scream.

“Babe,” JJ says from next to her, as she throws down her pack. “It’s fine. Look, we’re simulating the local economy with all these train tickets.”

“Stimulating,” she corrects, then kicks her backpack for good measure. JJ loops an arm around her shoulders, kisses her temple. He’s becoming gentler, more used to casual affection and touches. It scares her, sometimes, when he looks at her with trust and weight.

“We’ll get on the next one. C’mon.” He brings out his phone, scrolls to the train website and clicks translate. It still takes a while to decipher – the translation is piecemeal and meagre, but they manage to muddle through and get a train two hours later.

In February, JJ declares he wants to surf. They fly to Australia and hire a van and two surfboards in Sydney. Travel and hit all the best surfing spots along the coast.

JJ gets towed out to some of the bigger waves behind a jet ski. Kiara retreats to the shore and watches with increasing anxiety as the waves tower, way beyond those found at Outer Banks. It’s thousands of tons of water and weight and she thinks her heart stops several times when he disappears. It’s two whole hours before he’s riding on the back of the jet ski back to shore, board under one arm. He collapses in the sand next to her, all energy dispersed. There’s still enough to talk avidly with the jet ski rider, who enthuses about his apparent ability. JJ pushes a bandana into his hair and grins along with the conversation, slings an arm around Kiara’s neck and an easy kiss to her lips.

They stumble into the surfing shoot the next day. Are busy bickering on the sands of Byron Bay, strapping their boards to their ankles and pushing each other into the sand. JJ’s insisting that Kiara’s snoring kept him up – Kiara insists that he twitched in his sleep excessively, kicking her awake.

They catch some waves, then they notice the photoshoot on the beach. There’s a collection of photographers and models, a stylist darting in between each shot. They take to their boards in the sea and it quickly becomes apparent that they either grossly exaggerated their surfing ability, or had never been asked about it.

Kiara’s not surprised when JJ’s approached as he’s re-waxing his board, hands smoothing the bar across the surface. He’s lithe, banded muscle and tanned limbs. Long blonde hair and a ready smirk. She is surprised when they also gesture to her, to where she’s sitting on her board in the sea. It’s perhaps a dick move, but surfing in on a wave and then jumping off her board and wading through the shallows seems like the only fitting entrance when JJ waves her over.

“They want to know whether we’d be interested in joining the shoot,” JJ informs her. His lips are quirked and she can tell he finds it intensely amusing. It becomes a barter – they refuse payment. Eventually they settle on dinner in some exclusive Sydney restaurant, because one of the stylists can pull some strings.

From then, she has to change behind a wind break screen into branded bikinis and wetsuits and use their pro-offered board. It takes a wave or two to adjust to the new board – she can see them exchanging a look as she surfaces from being wiped out. JJ nails each one from the off, because of course he does. He does a cartwheel whilst he’s waiting for Kiara to change and the camera lens doesn’t stop clicking. They even take some candid’s whilst the other models are being used. Kiara crowds around the camera, shades the screen with her hand. There’s one where JJ has his arm wrapped around her shoulder, his mouth close to her ear. Her nose is screwed up and she’s laughing. It’s imperfect and the bikini would not be her first choice, but it’s natural and she thinks they look good together, leaning in towards each other – the photographer promises to send them over later.

JJ tells her he loves her when she hits her head in their small van whilst struggling into a hastily bought fancy dress for the high end restaurant. She’s rubbing the spot and cursing and frowning at him, and he stares at the roof as though he hadn’t spoken at all.

(He whispers it again, later on, whilst he’s got his arms bracketing her head and her legs around his hips, and she ignores that too, because men say a lot of things during sex and most of them lack the necessary intent).

They get the edited pictures a week after the shoot. Kiara posts an inordinate amount to her Instagram. JJ posts a sole one of her walking across the sand towards the camera with a single heart as the caption. It makes her stall when she sees it. She thinks twice before double tapping to like it. Flirts with the idea of responding with a single heart too. (In the end, she settles for _idiot_ and all of the Pogues respond similarly).

His picture gets the most likes of any he’s ever posted. Hannah from Cornwall comments _my fave and most beautiful couple_. JJ shows her, says, “see, you are super hot,” and Kiara finds a quarter of herself agreeing.

It’s when Kiara gets wolf whistled in Melbourne and JJ just throws an arm around her and pulls her in that she thinks _oh._ When he says, “you okay?” because he knows she hates being objectified. When the most he does is give the perpetrator the middle finger and tell him to fuck off.

She thinks _oh_ and then she thinks _oh shit._

They’re still in the van – there’s something about the freedom that’s endearing. JJ’s bought battery powered fairy lights and taped them to the roof, basking them in a warm glow when the sun sinks down on the horizon. Sometimes he goes off and surfs and Kiara moves from battered paperback to battered paperback, basking in the sun. Sometimes he turns up music and shout-sings and drives without knowing where he's going.

It’s whilst he’s away that she Facetimes Pope.

“I think I’m in love with JJ,” she announces grandly, and Pope rolls his eyes. His image on screen jerks, gets stuck, then re-animates.

“You only just realised?”

She doesn’t tell him for a couple of weeks. They keep going along the coast. They see their first great white shark off the south coast and JJ listens patiently to her rant about the misconceived ideas about sharks, and how _Jaws_ really tarnished their reputation.

“So, you wanna try and go surfing now? If they’re really so nice and all?”

“Absolutely not,” she confirms.

He grins. He has a beer bottle in one hand and a tank top on. There’s a faint breeze which stirs the strands of his hair. They’re sitting on the clifftop, overlooking the beach. The sea and beach are empty; closed due to the shark sighting. Occasionally they squint, point at something that could be a fin or a trick of the light.

She thinks perhaps she should be bored of him by now. Or he should be bored of her. There have been people, many people, along the way. They discover they have a similar taste in girls. Kiara notes she seems to be an exception to his usual type. JJ comments that he’s definitely her exception, because everyone else of her type possesses a vagina. They bicker daily and disagree the majority of the time. He wants to go to New Zealand and go bungee jumping from a bridge he’s seen. It scares her, but she reckons she’d give anything he wanted to do a go. A lot of her thinks she’ll always be safe with him.

His limbs are looser, languid, one arm pitched directly behind hers, their elbows crossed. He's been humming the _Jaws_ theme tune for a while, but finally fallen silent. She’d been grouchy earlier and he’d pulled out a coke. Had disappeared into a store and come back with another battered paperback. They have reams of notes in her phone of places they want to visit. He takes pictures of her doing handstands in increasingly weird places.

“Hey,” she says, and he doesn’t move his head, just looks sideways at her. “I’m glad it’s you. Who came with me.” He’s still, quiet. “You know I love you, right?”

His chin drops to his chest but she can see the dimples that emerge due to the sheer force of his grin. “Yeah,” he confirms. “I know.” He flicks his bottlecap at her forehead and she bats it away. “You’re alright too, I guess. Until someone better comes along.”

“I’m as good as it gets.”

“Oh, I know.”

_Fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the reaction to this fic has repeatedly blown my mind beyond all comprehension. the number of hits and comments and kudos are just... insane. i was looking for something to distract me from the state of the world and these two characters just struck a chord with me and never expected it to be so well received!!
> 
> thank you to everyone who has read this. thank you to everyone who has commented. thank you to everyone who has left kudos. especially thank you to everyone who has left a comment on multiple/every chapter - i see you, i appreciate you, and your comments are like crack to me. i can only apologise if my responses are less than eloquent. 
> 
> there may be a sequel to this fic in the same universe. i'm always on [tumblr](https://rae-of-fricking-sunshine.tumblr.com/) if you want to shout about these idiots
> 
> (i also want to say thank you to @Juli_grisl who even made a video for jiara, apparently inspired by this fic. i've rewatched the edit so many times when inspiration has run dry. you can check it out [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FkKJ-VzOL4s))
> 
> (also, i apologise for the delayed update, i had some serious technological challenges!!)

**Author's Note:**

> this is inspired by the wonderful _sleep on the floor_ by the lumineers. also because the pogues definitely deserve some goodness in their lives. 
> 
> definitely not how season two is going to go, but we can all dream right? there will be more. quite a lot more, i believe
> 
> i'm also on [tumblr](https://rae-of-fricking-sunshine.tumblr.com/)
> 
> edit: there is also a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4sj7gX14YTjux0PDlLrIWe/) of all their travel songs, if anyone fancies a look-see


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